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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 


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COME HOME 










Flame La Grande 





COME HOME 

A ROMANCE OF THE LOUISIANA 

RICE-LANDS 


BY 

STELLA G. S. PERRY 

Author of “Palmetto,” “The Kind Adventure," etc. 




NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 

MCMXXIII 










Copyright, 1928, by 
Frederick A. Stokes Company 

All rights reserved. 


Printed in the United States of America 

SEP 22 ’23 

©C1A75907 9 
VO | 



I 


To 

MY SON 

RALPH R. PERRY 























CONTENTS 


CHAPTER pAGH 

I. The Girl Who Could Not Feel . . i 

II. Camille Berenicia Comes Home . . . 16 

III. Weary Wings.30 

IV. The Road to the Woods.45 

V. At the Marge.63 

VI. Berne Makes a Friend.71 

VII. Peter Goes Hunting. 85 

VIII. Marcel Narcisse and His Shadow . . 100 

IX. Nests .112 

X. Elodi and Landry.125 

XI. Who Can, Must .135 

XII. Daniel is Enlisted. 152 

XIII. Jud Burden Tells the World . . . 162 

XIV. The Crown of Cypress. 186 

XV. Landry Takes No Blame .206 

XVI. Black Wings of Warning .... 223 

XVII. Red Dawn .243 

XVIII. Hope Against Hope .269 

XIX. Closing In. 289 

XX. Pool o’ the Moon.300 

XXL The Man Who Had Everything . .311 

XXII. Waiting.325 

XXIII. Rice . 347 

XXIV. Treasure Trove . 359 















* 









COME HOME 



COME HOME 


CHAPTER I 

THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT FEEL 

A S the slow train, going into the Acadian 
parishes, southwestward from New Or¬ 
leans, stopped at the junction—the sixth 
stop in that last half-hour—Daniel thumped his 
knee irritably. 

He could not bear the slowness, the frequent 
stoppings, the whole blamed pokiness of this road, 
of this place. 

Intolerable! The doctor was dead wrong, to 
send a man in his condition down here to this dull¬ 
ness. 

He was going to be bored; what was worse, he 
was sure to bore his grandfather, too. 

They had no imagination, or they’d never have 
sent a sick man to disappoint the good old chap, who 
had probably been wanting a scion he could show off 
to his neighbors. 

Daniel had imagination himself; it was not mak¬ 
ing things easier for him now. 

The thing he dreaded most was that famous 


2 


COME HOME 


Louisiana hospitality. Old neighbors who could 
remember his childhood among them, remember it 
more clearly than he did, and would want to remind 
him of its pleasant inanities, and perhaps hold cele¬ 
brations about him; when all he wanted was to be 
let alone, to “play dead” until—if so be—he could 
come alive again! 

He had been glad to get away from all the kind¬ 
ness tendered him in New Orleans. Down here, in 
“the parishes,” it would be worse; here, where 
everybody had known his family since the days of 
'Evangeline. Evangeline? Since d’Iberville! It 
was going to be—Lord! 

Of course, the doctor had expressed theories and 
had to live up to them,—all that hokum about the 
restorative qualities of a childhood environment; 
what good could the fact that he’d lived here as a 
cub do now?—but how on earth had they ever got 
his mother’s consent, her cooperation? Poor little 
girl! How they must have scared her! 

Daniel smiled with tender amusement as he 
thought of his mother. 

Oh! Louisiana did have a certain call to him; 
normally he’d have liked visiting the family seat. 
He’d have liked to find out how much of this place 
he did remember. 

That sugar-house awhile back,—wasn’t that 
where he and Camille La Grande had been punished 
for eating cuite syrup, against adult orders, when 
they’d been taken there to see the grinding? That 


THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT FEEL 


3 


funny little kid! She went and confessed before 
anybody made inquiries about it; Daniel recalled the 
shock of that. Nervy, though. There was some¬ 
thing sporting about that little gipsy. Was she 
here now? Married, probably. 

For the love of Pete, what was that train waiting 
for now? 

“Hold up! Steady there, boy!’’ He checked 
himself, brought his nervousness up short with a 
laugh, set his teeth upon it. “What’s your hurry, 
son? We’re not going anywhere.” 

A breath of honeysuckle floated in the window. 
The world on that side of the train was a tangle of 
honeysuckle; fences, old trees,—the fragrant 
ground-vines reaching up ambitious for the gray 
moss that hung above their heads,—fallen logs, 
negro cabins, the very fields a carpet of white and 
green and yellow. 

Through the opposite window he saw reedy 
marshes, punctuated by light jade trees and divided 
by lagoons and winding waters. Islands of water- 
hyacinths, not yet in bloom but vividly green, 
floated upon them. On the marge, giant irises,— 
purple, lilac, tawny,—were coming into flower. 

The sky was plumbago blue; the reflections in the 
waters perfect. 

A mocking-bird sang. 

“Oh! it’s pretty enough,” Dan said grudgingly, 
as if resisting an inner voice. “But what on—oh, 
well! It’s orders.” 


4 


COME HOME 


He stared moodily at the floating islands of 
hyacinth; likened himself to them. They looked 
like real earth-islands; he looked like a strong man. 
If you stepped on them you went through to the 
muddy water. As for him, no resistance either. 
Fake. Hollow. Floating. 

Fie had expected too much of the War; life had 
given him something worth while to do at last and 
he had believed that he had found himself in it, 
never again to relax into the vapidities that 
tangled his personality and clung to him, like the 
gray moss that fellow out there was trying to 
unwind from the wheels of his buggy. 

Even when they gave him the War Cross, his 
thought had been, “God! Let this last! Keep 
me in earnest!” 

He had been deceived. He came back used up. 
Couldn’t even play any more. A beastly pain in 
his side, a weariness that was too restless to rest, 
a sense of futility as if it had all been just a grand 
gesture; a Cross of War and a double cross of 
peace,—that was what he had given himself. 
Why, he was worse than before he had enlisted! 
Then, green wood that wouldn’t burn. Now, 
embers. 

Once more he pulled himself together. 

“At it again! I must let go. ... I beg your 
pardon, Madam!” 

The train had come to life with a jerk, and a 


THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT FEEL 


5 


large black-silked lady who had just walked down 
the isle was precipitated into Daniel’s lap. 

He helped her to her feet. 

She smelled of vetivert sachet and he liked the 
scent. 

He liked the general effect of the stout lady, her 
lack of embarrassment, the pure amusement in her 
laugh, the tinkling jet beadwork on her chest and 
back, even the long earrings, green jade on black 
onyx, that dangled to her shoulders. 

Her eyes were like black onyx, too; and her hair, 
in old-fashioned water-waves on her broad white 
forehead, was nearly as shiny as the jet-trimmed 
bonnet above it. There were deep dimples in her 
soft white cheeks; they were both showing now, as 
she smiled. Little pits of rice powder, they seemed, 
but nevertheless altogether friendly and agreeable. 
Her hands were dimpled, too; she steadied her¬ 
self with them as she took the seat next the window 
that Dan relinquished in her favor. 

“Thank you!—I beg your pardon of you, sir!—* 
But, after all, it is the train should apologize: is it 
no? This train, he is so slow; and now to jomp, 
so of a sudden! I think some one must have 
frighten’ him; hein?” She chuckled at her own 
conceit. “Ah! Now we start. We pass more 
quickly now. I very near miss’ the train, me. 
You see me run? You didn’t see me run? Oh!’’— 

regretfully—“you didn’t see me run! My chauf- 


6 


COME HOME 


feur he was late and so I was also late; and he help’ 
me run for the train. I regret you didn’t see us 
run. We were fonny. My chauffeur has a 
wooden leg, votes savez? And me, I am not con¬ 
struct’ for to run; eh?” 

She laughed a soft alto, to an accompaniment of 
tinkling beads. 

Daniel enjoyed her. Without realizing it, the 
sick boy had been needing something, some one, 
warm and folksy. They soon accompanied each 
other, like old acquaintances. 

In part, he explained himself to her. He was 
from New York. Rather knocked out. The doc¬ 
tor had prescribed Louisiana. 

“Tss! Tss! C*est la guerre! I know. That 
war! Well, you will like here. Good food, good 
people, good beauty to see, ride, hunt, fish,—plenty. 
Much better than New York, I thank God.” 

“You know New York?” 

“My sister, she live’ there. In a barracks. 
Apartment house, they call it. Me, a barracks . 
On Park Avenue and Forty-Seven’ Street. ’Or- 
rible!” 

“You find it horrible,—Park Avenue and Forty- 
Seventh?” Dan asked, smiling. 

“For me, yes. In New York they have no 
po’ches.” 

He did not understand. 

“Po’ches, verandas, galleries,—you know, po’¬ 
ches !” 


THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT FEEL 


7 


‘‘Certainly; porches are scarce there.” 

“So! No po’ches. No rocking chairs. No 
gardens. And me,—oh-ee !—I think: no po’ches, 
no hospitality. No rocking chairs, no comfort. 
No gardens, no homes. Not so? You think?” 

Dan smiled, shrugged. “I’m used to it, you 
see.” 

His animation had waned; he could not keep 
interested in anything for long. 

He looked out of the window, taking no pleasure 
in the dark mystery of the lush woods going by. 

His fellow-traveller understood, sighed, wrapped 
the young man in a motherly silence. 

Helas! The invisible scars of war! In that 
country they knew them of old and still remem¬ 
bered, the women. It was all she could do not to 
pat the brown head drooping beside her. 

A voice roused, lifted, rejuvenated it. 

“Good morning, Mme. Boutin,” was all it said, 
as the girl passed by and sat down a little ahead of 
them, across the aisle. 

“Good morning, Berne,” Mme. Boutin replied. 

There was something so young, so strong, so 
steady, so singing in the girl's voice that Dan had 
risen to it as to the call of a bugle. 

The girl was of fair height, slender but not 
frail ,—fausse maigre ,—very straight yet not un¬ 
graceful; there was a lone cypress on the skyline 
that stood and moved as she did. 

Her face and throat were too thin for beauty; 


8 


COME HOME 


the cheek-bones and the little bones of the shoulders 
showed like the soft padded ribs of a colt. She 
held her eyes well open, large, steady, observant. 
They were clear, dark, ruddy-golden brown like old 
amber, and heavily fringed with red-brown lashes 
dipped into black at the edges. Her eyebrows were 
silky and sweeping off to points, like the out¬ 
stretched wings of a bird. 

Indeed, her whole expression was at once alert 
and soaring. 

Her skin was very white and, like many red- 
haired women, she had a cluster of freckles across 
the bridge of her small, straight nose. Its nostrils 
and her eyelids were delicately finished, sculpture- 
smooth. 

Her mouth, though tenderly turned, had a certain 
rigidity and so had her rounded chin. Once, a 
stranger had said that Berne’s mouth looked as if 
her lower lip were pressed to keep from trembling; 
but a neighbor had laughed in contradiction. 

“You imagine, my friend! No, cher, no! She 
is not emotional, that girl!” 

She wore her burnished hair, a streaked amalgam 
of gold and copper, drawn back too severely for her 
slender face; its mass at the nape of her neck seemed 
to pull it away from her forehead. But that fore¬ 
head was, after all, her chief beauty; not too high, 
broad, smooth and white, her only classic feature. 
The hair waved a very little, in long waves; a tendril 
had fallen to her cheek. 


THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT FEEL 


9 


She held her head as a boy holds his, half timid, 
half defiant. 

Berne wore a gray linen skirt and a gray blouse 
made like a Boy Scout’s. The jacket of her suit 
hung over her arm. A wide white sailor hat was in 
her hand. 

“An interesting girl,” said Daniel. Though he 
did not dare, his manner asked, “Who is she?” 

Mme. Boutin puckered her brow, raised her 
plump hand in apology, answered his implied ques¬ 
tion. 

“You will forgive. But we,—it is an old- 
fashion’ custom,—cannot give our young ladies’ 
names to the strangers. To even such very nice 
strangers like you.” 

“Of course, you can’t. And I didn’t ask you to, 
either; did I?” he laughed. 

He sat back and regarded the girl. Her profile, 
white and fine against the brilliant blue of the sky, 
looked like a della Robbia relief. 

Mme. Boutin would have been astonished to learn 
that his interest had begun before this encounter. 

Dan had noticed that girl at the theater in New 
Orleans, first because of her hair; then he had been 
amused because she had not smiled throughout the 
acceptable comedy; he could see her well from his 
box. 

He had commented upon her immobility and 
Raoul Cantrelle, his host, had shrugged and said, 
“She is cold, that child. And, perhaps, stupid.” 


10 


COME HOME 


After that, Cantrelle could not give her name, of 
course, and Dan had not cared about it anyway. 
Not then. 

But that girl, seen at closer range, did not look 
stupid. She had personality. He found that he 
wanted to know who she was. 

It was a good sign in him, to have a real interest 
in anything. In his morbidly introspective state, he 
recognized that. He would indulge the impulse, 
rouse himself, take a little effort. 

“Perhaps I may not be a stranger here, after all, 
dear Madam. Maybe you have mistaken a native 
for a stranger,” he said. 

“Comment?” 

“I haven’t been here since I was a boy. But, you 
know a family hereabout,—all over the landscape, I 
believe,—named Barde?” 

“Barde But, yes! Who does not? I am 
married very close to tham.” 

“Odillon Barde is my grandfather.” 

“Dieu de dieu!” She clasped her hands, much 
excited. “You are the son of Olivier Barde! You 
are small Daniel Barde!” 

“Yes, Madam. Most people, North, called us 
Barde, though, and my father dropped the accent 
after—” 

“After he and your grandpere quarreled. I 
know! But do not you do so, here, my young 
friend. It is not my business but nevertheless my 
counsel. Keep that ancien accent. Best remain 


THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT FEEL 


11 

Daniel Barde in your own country, my son. 
Oo- -ee ! Gai-Da ,—that is what we called you, be¬ 
cause you were so gay, so laughing always. You 
don’t remember? Yes! You remember!—I have 
hold you on my lap, cher, many times.” 

She stopped, remembering how she had held him 
on her lap the day his mother deserted him. 

He did not know about that, it was evident. 

“Too bad I’ve forgotten that distinction,” he was 
saying with a smile. “But doubtless my mother 
will—” 

“Without doubt,” she inserted drily. And 
Maude Barde would doubtless remember, too, she 
thought, how she had scolded her,—the frivolous 
little new-rich from Chicago,—for not being content 
with Olivier and the baby and the rice-plantation, 
for exposing to gossip an unblemished name. Poor 
little fool! Tiens! Maybe not such a fool after 
all. For had they not followed her, done as she 
wished, Olivier and the child? Had not Olivier 
hurt his good father to the heart for her? Oo-ee! 
They get their way in the world, these selfish 
women; they are the ones who get all. Ts! Ts! 
This boy probably adored his mother as that poor 
Olivier had adored his wife. 

“And now may I know who the young lady is ?” 

She laughed. “She interest’ you,?” 

He told her about the theater; how the girl had 
not smiled at the play; how her aloofness had 
amused him. 



12 


COME HOME 


“Hm. It is in character. To be sure, she has 
not much emotion, that child. She is austere, that 
girl. Like a statue. A very fine girl,—oh, yes 1 
But she is not young and impulsive,—like me, who 
talk to strange young men on the trains.” The 
beads jingled. 

“Who is she?” he begged. He was actually im¬ 
patient. 

God! It was good to care! He really wanted 
to know. It mattered to him, something mattered 
at last; not very much, indeed,—but a break had 
come into his apathy, a rift in the cloud that op¬ 
pressed him. 

Perhaps this wise woman sensed that. At any 
rate, she provoked his interest, introduced suspense. 

“Some call her Berne of the Birds. Some call 
her Berne of the Byah.” 

“Berne of Bayou or Birds,—very pretty. But 
what’s her name? Look here, madame f are you 
teasing me ?” 

“Who knows? I have hold you on my knee, my 
friend. Not so? Oh, well! You shall be re¬ 
lieve’. This is Miss Camille Berenicia Marie La 
Grande.” 

“Camille— what? Camille La Grande,—Fiam- 
metta La Grande,— Flame! Little Flame grown 
up! That baby!” 

“You remember, eh? Her, you remember; not 
me, eh? Me, on whose lap you two slap each other 
and cry!—But, see here, honey, mon fils! Do not 


THE GIRL WHO COULD NOT FEEL 


13 


call her Flame, Fiammetta, to-day. She don’t like 
those names any more. Berenicia, she like’. I 
warn you. Miss Berenicia. Berne.” 

“Right-o! I’ll try not to offend. Camille La 
iGrande! Anyway, from what you tell me, Flame 
doesn’t suit this frigid young person. No wonder 
she doesn’t like it.” 

'‘Non. You have right. It is amazing how she 
have no enthusiasm, that young creature. All for 
business, management, all control! Only for the 
birds!” 

“Birds?” 

“Si. She adores tham. Fonny, that girl.” 

Dan half-rose, quickly. “Will you pardon me?” 
he said. He must use this wonderful thing, this 
lively interest, before it left him, as it was sure soon 
to do. 

“You go speak with Berenicia? You think she 
will have remember’ so long?” doubtingly, with a 
deterring hand. 

“Scarcely. But she must have heard about me. 
If she doesn’t recall, I’ll summon you to the rescue. 
If you please!” 

“Ohh! Too bad! I regret. Here is my place. 
I must leave. You must surely, surely come stay 
a long time at our house,— Gai-Da! Pass me your 
word.” 

“Thank you! If I can.” 

“Ah, bon! Now, I will kiss you,—so! I have 
wanted to do this for ten miles, my son,—so, on 


H 


COME HOME 


the curls, hein? And the good saints send you back 
your health, son of Olivier Barde!” 

She left him, dimpling at him, waved a chubby 
hand. But, once outside, she murmured to her¬ 
self, “Maude Barde! She has now this beautiful 
son of Olivier. She, who ran away and left him 
in his childhood! My poor Olivier,—who would 
be so, so proud of this son!—he is dead. Me, I 
am childless. They have strange blessings, these 
selfish women. Even life himself they can cajole.” 

Daniel made ready to address Miss La Grande. 
It was a risky thing to do; suppose she had for¬ 
gotten, had never heard of him! Oh! Everybody 
hereabouts had heard of everybody else. It would 
be all right, or Mme. Boutin would have forbidden 
it. 

Come what might, it was worth a rebuff, this 
doing something on his own initiative, this wanting 
to do it. 

Emotionless. Rather alluring to meet that kind 
of a girl just now; the War and his decorations and 
illness had made all his own world of women so 
sloppy. Couldn’t feel; eh? That was funny, too; 
Flame had had the temper of a small fiend as a 
child. 

He walked beyond the girl’s seat, turned back, 
facing her. 

There was no one sitting beside her. He would 
sit there himself and then begin inconspicuously, 


THE GIRL WHO COUI^D NOT FEEL 15 

make it easier for her to ignore him if she wanted 
to. 

She wouldn’t, though; somehow, he knew she 
wouldn’t. 

But Daniel did not carry out this program. 
He did not even sit beside Camille Berenicia Marie. 

He stopped a moment, regarded her, then slowly 
went back to his former place. 

For, as he came toward this girl, who, he had 
twice been told, so lacked emotion, he saw that her 
hands were clenched, pressing hard on the brim of 
the hat she held in her lap; that her eyes were 
closed, her lips,—even that firmly held lower one,— 
quivering piteously; and over the white softness of 
her cheek a tear moved slowly. 


CHAPTER II 


CAMILLE BERENICIA COMES HOME 

T HE uneven road ran, or better, loitered, 
along a coulee f —a little branch bayou, 
deep as a moat, seldom wider than a brook, 
often not as wide; winding and beguiling as a brook, 
but placid and quiet-watered, almost as still as a 
pool. It was only by watching the cherokee rose- 
petals that glided like becalmed elfin craft upon its 
surface that the waters could be seen to move. 

Tranquille was the name of the coulee, and tran¬ 
quilly the banks of young Southern maple, water 
oak and willow arched gentle arms above it. Bud¬ 
ded iris had stepped into the stream out of a tangle 
of the pink-tipped foliage of the trumpet-vine. On 
the stump of an old cypress in the water, a new 
little crown of green twigs was resting. In the 
center of this fairy ring, a turtle slept. 

Berne watched the turtle a moment from the 
humpy little road, then turned, with a shadow of 
reluctance, to the old gate facing the stream. 

Over the span of the gateway an intertwining of 
wistaria and jasmine vines,—the white wistaria still 
in bloom,—made an arch between two sentinel 
oleanders rubescent with buds. 

16 


CAMILLE BERENICIA COMES HOME 


17 


Both vines and shrubs were hopelessly in need of 
trimming, but Berne wound several branches back 
upon themselves in a futile effort for order. So, 
too, she brushed away leaves from the gate-step with 
an impatient foot. With dissatisfaction she looked 
up the path, between the overgrown ranks of the 
lush shell-lily plants that bordered it. As one does, 
returning after an absence to a well-known spot, 
she glanced over house and grove and garden, seeing 
them with freshened vision. 

The wide, sweeping lawns were unkempt; piles of 
old moss from the great live-oaks lay everywhere. 
Moss had fallen from these higher trees to the 
lower ones, clinging even to the smooth leaves of 
palms and bananas; the very telephone-wire w r as 
roped with gray moss. The flower-beds were so 
over-grown with tall grass that now the Castilian 
roses and red lilies were growing not in beds at all 
but in the grass itself, wherever they did not stand 
knee-deep in vagabond ivy. The evergreens were 
rusty for want of pruning; the orange trees had all 
gone to leaf and branch; vines had taken possession 
of the corrugated towers of dead or dying date- 
palms. Only the oaks and magnolias, a noble hack- 
berry and the gay little onyx Japan-plum trees 
seemed to have escaped the general aura of shabbi¬ 
ness; and even some of the oaks were being de¬ 
voured by the insidious teeth of mistletoe. 

The house was old-fashioned, brick, painted 
white,—but the white had peeled in many places,— 


i8 


COME HOME 


with a yellow-plaster front and yellow-plaster Doric 
columns. An outside stairway led, through a riot 
of wistaria, from the brick terrace to an upper 
shuttered gallery,—shuttered except where the 
blinds had been torn away by the weight of the 
vines. 

“Sweet place to invite any one to!” said Berne. 

Then she glanced upward with sudden pleasure. 

“Well, my little ones, your houses are all proper, 
anyway,” she said. 

On trees and porch and broken arbors were bird- 
houses, a veritable colony of them, rustic-finish 
cabinlets and cottages shiny with paint. Berne 
watched the little dwellings a moment, hoping for 
a glimpse of perky head or darting wing, before she 
pushed open the heavy front door. 

The great room was agreeably shadowy and cool 
on this warm spring day. It extended the full depth 
of the house; a doorway at the rear led to a vista 
of untended garden; and, beyond the garden in the 
distance, the eye was pleasantly conscious of the 
broad waters of Bayou Vermilion. The room, 
beautifully furnished in the sturdiest of the styles 
of Napoleon’s Empire, though now out at elbows, 
was exquisitely cared for. Little red Louis-Philippe 
roses, in a great glass bowl, perfumed it. 

At a small escritoire in one window, a young man 
in fashionable riding clothes was writing a letter, 
his head bent above it. He heard the door open, 
but did not indicate that he had done so. Berne 


CAMILLE BERENICIA COMES HOME 19 

caught that under lip in her teeth as she regarded 
him. 

In the other window, seated upon its broad ledge, 
an older man was smoking a carved meerschaum. 
He wore a rusty black silk dressing gown and 
morocco slippers that had once been red. He was 
well-made, graceful, agreeable to the eye; his iron- 
gray hair too vigorous for a face of pallid delicacy. 
His hands were nervous. He sat restlessly as if 
he were half minded to rise. A small, empty coffee- 
cup was beside him. 

He did rise as his daughter entered, rose with 
an emphasis that brought the young man also up¬ 
right for a moment. 

“Fiammetta, my dear,” said her father as she 
kissed him. “It’s good to have you home again.” 

“ ’Lo, Camille,” said the red-haired young man 
at the desk, resuming his note. “Did you walk 
up ?” 

“Naturally. There was no one to meet me. 
Where are Uncle Hope and the mule-cart?” 

“I don’t know. Ovide took the buggy to Cure- 
ville to be re-tired. And your horse.—” 

“Oh, that’s all right!—Feeling pretty well, 
Commodore?” to her father. 

“Why,—well enough, well enough. Horribly 
busy, of course. So much to think of,—to do.” 

Berne caught her lip. “I know, honey,” she 
said, avoiding the wink of the wicked brown eye the 
red-haired youth raised above the desk. 


20 


COME HOME 


“What sort of a time did you have, sweetness?” 
asked the senior La Grande. 

“A hellish time,” said Berne. 

Her father raised his hands, shocked, but smiling. 

Landry looked up. 

“Camille, I do wish you wouldn’t,” he said 
peevishly. “Please try to speak like a lady, at least, 
if you can’t act like one.” 

“All right, brother,” calmly. “I thought maybe 
it was time for somebody around here to speak and 
act like a man.” 

Her father laughed, clapped his hands softly; 
he knew that her rejoinder had no reference to him. 
He glanced roguishly at his son, who kept on writ¬ 
ing. 

“I had a highly uncomfortable time, Commo¬ 
dore,” Berne amended, sitting beside him. “They 
did not want to extend the note again. Mr. Au¬ 
guste said he thought—the bank thought—” 

“But they did extend it,” Mr. La Grande said 
hurriedly, eager to avoid hearing what he did not 
like to hear. “They did extend it. Never mind 
the unpleasant preliminaries. All over now, dear¬ 
est! You’re a wonderful little lady. And you 
were right, my dear, as usual. It was much better 
for us to go and see them. So sorry I couldn’t do 
it myself! My health,—and the work on this 
plantation—” 

“Yes, sir,” said his son. “Too bad you didn’t 
go! Much more dignified. I simply couldn’t 


CAMILLE BERENICIA COMES HOME 


21 


afford to, now. You told them I didn’t know any¬ 
thing about it, Camille?” 

“No, Landry. I didn’t.” 

“I asked you to ! Why—” 

“Not my way. However, I don’t believe Mr. 
Auguste thought of you at all. Don’t worry. No¬ 
body but me thought you ought to have gone.—Give 
me that coffee-cup, Commodore.” 

u No; leave it. Tiny will come for it.” 

“Tiny has so much to do, dear!” 

“That’s true. I keep forgetting how few ser¬ 
vants,—how times have changed for us.” 

“That’s right, darling. Do forget it.” 

She took the cup and left them. 

Her brother put down his pen. “Will you tell 
me, sir, how the Mater ever was the mother of a 
daughter like that? Why, there’s no girl in her!” 

His father smiled cryptically, an enigmatic ex¬ 
pression that always drove Landry mad. “It 
doesn’t mean a thing, and you know it doesn’t; yet 
you can’t help wondering what it means,” he often 
complained to his sympathetic mother. 

Berne came back into the doorway, the cup still 
in her hand. 

“Oh! I forgot to tell you, Commodore. Dan¬ 
iel Barde is in the parish. You remember Gai-Dat 
I saw him on the train.” 

“And knew him? Why, you were an infant— 1 

“Oh, of course, I shouldn’t have if I hadn’t heard 
about his coming when I was in New Orleans.” 


22 


COME HOME 


“Did you look for the scar on his forehead?” 
Landry asked teasingly. 

Her color heightened. “No,” she answered. 

“Pardon, sis! That was mean.—Dan’s coming 
'will interest Mater,” Landry added with a sly 
inflection. 

“On my account, you mean? Oh, no! Dan’s 
not as eligible as Martin.” , 

“What a thing to say! Haven’t you any delicacy, 
Camille?” 

“Oh, come, my dear fellow! You know that’s 
what you meant. Dan was looking awfully knocked 
up, Commodore. The war got to him they say.” 

“So, my dear? We must ask him here.” 

“Whatever Mater says. He used to love to 
come when he was little. But he’ll have more fun, 
other places, I’m afraid.” 

“That’s true, sir. Why can’t I put him up later 
at the club in town instead?” 

“This is our home, my son. Are you ashamed 
of the old place?” The sweetish tenor of Mr. 
La Grande’s voice grew plaintive. 

“The place is all right,” said Berne. “It’s what 
hasn’t been done for it Landry's ashamed of.” 

Then she looked at her brother, smiled with 
sudden tenderness; she was lovely when she smiled. 
She went over to him put her hand on his shoulder, 
leaned her cheek against his hair. 

“Forgive me, Lanny dear. I’m a beast to you. 
I’m sorry. But I’ve had a—very difficult time and 


CAMILLE BERENICIA COMES HOME 


23 


come home cranky. Let’s not scrap, buddy. Pax? } 

He covered her hand with his. “Surely old girl. 
But, you see how it is, Camille. You must watch 
your disposition. 1 ou realize afterwards, but—” 

*0 Lord! What’s the use?” said Berne, and 
went out with the cup. 

The back of the house was shaped like three 
sides of a square, with wooden cloistered corridors 
making an incomplete patio. 

Berne took the cup to the kitchen wing. 

“How-dye, Singsie!” She spoke to the young 
brown cook in charge there. 

“Well, hyere comes Missy! Shall I draw you 
a cup o’ coffee, Missy? You sho’ looks all tuckered 
out. Po’ li’l lamb! You works too hard; you’s 
got too much to think about. ’Taint no use fo’ de 
brain o’ man to use itse’f up thinkin’. Set down, 
pretty, out yonder in de hammock and let yo’ Singsie 
do somethin’ fo’ you.” 

“You’ve done something for me already, Singsie.” 
She smiled her rare smile. “Just what I needed.” 

“Ain’t done nothin’ yet,” in surprise. 

“Well, give me some coffee, please. And a 
cookie. Oh! That smells good! Nobody makes 
coffee like Singsie,—not even at Antoine’s in the 
city.” 

“Oh, you go along, Missy!” she giggled, de¬ 
lighted. “You’s just a-buzzin’ me; isn’t you,?” 

“Not a bit. It’s true. I’ll sit here and drink 
it; I want to talk to you, Singsie.” 


24 


COME HOME 


“Now, looky hyere, Missy! Is you gwine pester 
me again, talkin’ about wages? ’Cause if’n you is, 
I isn’t gwine listen at it; ’deed I ain’t. \ ou just 
go on keepin’ dem wages fo’ me, ’cause I hasn’t 
got no manner of use fo’ money. Ain’t I’s got a 
neat li’l cabin out yonder in de yard fo’ me and 
ma Maw to live in? Ain’t you always guv me ma 
contribution fo’ de contribution-plate to pay dat 
lazy Reverend on Sunday fo’ loafin’ all week? Ain’t 
I’s got good calico dresses, and feastin’ on de fat o’ 
de land? What-for I wants money? Ma sakes! 
If’n I had all dat money I’d likely be fool-headed 
enough to buy me a man and git married,” she 
laughed. “And never have another thing to call ma 
own as long as I live, fo’ever,—amen!” 

Berne’s lower lip was pressed hard before she 
said, “Th-thank you, Singsie. But I must tell 
you—” 

“Dey ain’t no buts to it. Dis-hyere goat’s got 
his horns cut off; he cayn’t butt none.—Oh, lookee! 
Yo’ Paw’s signallin’ to you, chile.” Singsie drew 
a breath of relief. “Yonder,—in de doorway. 
But finish up yo’ coffee, first off. You needs it.” 

Good Singsie drew a breath of relief, but some¬ 
thing like alarm stared for a moment out of Berne’s 
quiet eyes as she saw her father, pulling nervously 
at his pipe, side-glancing toward his son to be sure 
that Landry was not looking at him, as he flashed 
a brisk, calling finger toward Berne. 

Seeing that she understood, he walked off through 


CAMILLE BERENICIA COMES HOME 25 


the tangled grasses, around the house, away from 
the windows, down a narrow path peppered with the 
last particles of old gravel, screened by shrubs and 
sweet with lemon verbena. 

Berne squared her shoulders and followed him. 

“Want me, Commodore?” she asked, overtaking 
him, slipped her arm in his. 

“Yes, daughter. Yes,” nervously. He hesi¬ 
tated. 

She helped him over his embarrassment. “I sold 
the car,” she said. “Couldn’t get more than a 
thousand for it. But that will help repair the pump 
and tractor in the rice-fields and pay for another 
shovel-man. That’s why I didn’t tell Landry,— 
afraid he’d think they needed it more in the city. 
It will be such a relief to be sure of another shovel- 
man ! And that pump! An old worn-out pump 
that works sometimes t with an old-fashioned, ever- 
breaking gasoline tractor to run it, is my idea of 
purgatory. If w r e send to Kalamazoo for new parts 
right away, maybe they’ll come in time.” 

Her father faltered, blushed. 

“It would be excellent, dear. And I’m sure we’ll 
be able to take care of both very soon.” 

“Soon? We must do it right away. Oh!” with 
a note of angry disappointment. She controlled it 
quickly and said in a quiet but rather breathless 
voice, “You want the money,—for something else?” 

“Why,—please don’t care, Fiammetta,—I must 
have it. I’ve a plan on foot, my dear,—something 


26 


COME HOME 


that will make us rich, free us from this harassing, 
humiliating— I’m not ready, just yet, to tell about 
it. But you’ll see. You’ll all see! Just a little 
more patience! It’s almost a miracle, this thing. 
Almost a miracle. But I shall have to use that 
money. Sorry!” 

It was his, of course. There was nothing to be 
done. 

“The check is already deposited in your bank, 
Commodore,” was all Berne said. 

He put his arm about her. “My girl is disap¬ 
pointed,” he said sadly, drew her to him. 

“I—we—must put that tractor in repair. Can’t 
do without another shovel-man. Onestide is rheu¬ 
matic; it’s too much for him.” She had to stop a 
moment, then spoke calmly in that high, clear voice. 
“You know when I—we—couldn’t afford to keep up 
the cane—after what sugar’s been going through !— 
and you—we—didn’t put in enough diversified truck 
in that southwest corner,— I do wish you—we— 
had!—why, Daddy dear, you know we agreed that 
we’ve got to look after the rice. The cattle on 
Savane Salee won’t begin to carry the place. We’ve 
planted so late, anyway,—if the grass comes with 
the rice—and not water enough to drown it out—” 

“Always the plantation first!” He pinched her 
cheek. “It isn’t the only thing we can do,—depend 
upon,—my dear!” 

“It’s real,” she began. Then seeing a look of 
deep hurt on his face, she smiled at him. “All 


CAMILLE BERENICIA COMES HOME 27 


right. You is de big boss, Boss,” she said. 
“Reckon it’ll all go well.” 

“That’s my good girl. Trust me. It is going 
well. If you only knew!” His eyes burned with 
a vision. Then he half whispered, “Please,—let’s 
not mention this affair to Landry—or your mother. 
Little partner! We’ll wait and surprise them.” 

He changed the topic, knew how to intrigue her. 
“Did you see the small brother?” 

Berne’s face glowed like a proud mother’s. “Of 
course! He’s doing so well! But, of course, 
Mater told you. Head of his class and his com¬ 
pany, and the other little fellows are strong for him. 
Dr. Mercier says he’ll head the school someday. 
Not homesick a bit. I didn’t quite like that,— 
jealous!” She laughed at herself. 

“And you, little woman, didn’t you have any fun 
in the city?” 

“People were very good to me. But I wasn’t 
feeling very butterfly. I’m afraid I was poky. I 
do wish I could bob up serenely as Mater does. 
You should have seen her sparkle. Po’ li’l me! 
I could just watch her and blink. Darling, I’m a 
changeling, I believe. Or didn’t you find me some¬ 
where, you and Mater?” 

“Um-h’m. In a bird’s nest.” 

“That’s nice. That’s why we’re at home to¬ 
gether,” she waved her hand to a mocking bird. 
“Commodore! Who is that man? There! Look! 
In the road.” 


COME HOME 


28 


“I didn’t see a man. What sort of man?” 

“Gone now. Rough. He’s been hanging around 
here before. I saw him. Don’t like the look of 
him. He’s buzzardy.” 

“Little ’Cajati! Suspicious of strangers.” 

“No; I’m not.—But he looks queer” She 
glanced up, saw that her father had lost color, was 
wetting his lips. “Daddy, are you ill?” 

“No, no. Just a little tired. I’ve been feeling 
rather rocky lately. I’ll go inside. No; don’t 
come with me. I’m all right. Truly. I’ll lie 
down awhile.” 

She watched him anxiously until he had entered 
the back door into the great room. Then she 
turned into the garden again. 

As the path rounded toward the front of the 
house, she saw her father standing in the doorway. 

He was waving his arms frantically as if signalling 
to some one to be off. 

Her glance followed his gesture. 

She saw the strange man, the man she had called 
a buzzard, standing on a little rise in the road. 

He saw her at the same moment, snatched his eyes 
away from hers, lifted a dirty hand in answer to 
her father’s warning, disappeared into the under¬ 
brush near the coulee. 

Mr. La Grande, very pale, went to the couch, 
stretched himself upon it. He hoped his daughter 
had not seen him in the doorway. 

After a blank moment of shock, Berne ran down 


CAMILLE BERENICIA COMES HOME 29 


the central walk between the lush ranks of the shell- 
lily plants, out of the gate beneath the vine-tangle, 
and into the winding road beside the coulee. 

She could see that man emerging from the under¬ 
brush ahead of her. He slipped around a curve 
in the road. 

Berne followed him. 


CHAPTER III 


WEARY WINGS 

W HEN Berne came back to the vine- 
entangled gate, she saw a small black 
girl in gay Turkey-red calico, perched 
upon it, swinging, Berne thought, like a cardinal 
on a twig. 

The little darkey scrambled down to meet her. 
“Law sakes, Missy!” she expostulated. “Just 
look at yo’se’f! You’s all muddy and tored. 
Um-m! You better be mighty glad you isn’t me. 
If’n I come home to Sis Tiny lookin’ like you does, 
I’d be scared to step in de house. She’d lam de 
hide oh ma back. Just look-a yo’ pretty shoes, all 
byah mud! Just look-a yo’ waist all ripped in de 
sleeve! Yo’ hair’s all cornin’ scraggly—” 

“Yes, yes, Beetee; I know. Were you waiting 
at the gate for meT ’ 

“Yas’m. Singsie, she told me I’s obliged to stand 
hyere and watch fo’ Missy.” 

“What for?” 

“Fo’ to tell Missy to go in de back way or up 
de gallery stairs and up to Missy’s room and fix 
yo’se’f, before anybody see you. ’Cause yo’ Maw 
done come home and brung company.” 

30 


WEARY WINGS 


31 


Berne sighed. 

“All right. Come on in, then. Good Singsie, 
to warn me!” 

‘Aas’m; Singsie’s good enough . But ’twas me 
done watched fo’ you.” 

Berne pinched the round black cheek. “Good 
little Beetee, too! Beetee, did Uncle Hope hire 
anybody to help him, while I was away? I saw a 
strange man around.” 

“No’m.—Missy, honey, is you done saw him, 
too?” Her eyes showing the whites, frightened. 

“Saw whom, Beetee?” 

They stopped, facing each other, under the pome¬ 
granate tree near the house. 

“Prowler. Dat’s who. Is you done saw de 
Prowler?” 

“The Prowler, Beetee?” 

“Um-hu. Comes prowlin’ around hyere and 
slinkin’ off when somebody’s lookin’. Unc’ Hope 
clone told yo’ Paw about dat Prowler; but Mr. La 
Grande just laugh and say, ‘He a po’ harmless man; 
leave him alone. I knows him.’ ” 

“Mr. La Grande said he knew him?” 

“Yas’m. But Unc’ Hope don’t like nobody what 
prowls. Dat’s what he say. Um-mm. He say, 
‘I just natchelly doesn’t care fo’ nobody what 
prowls.’ And me, too. I’s de same way. I ain’t 
got no taste fo’ prowlers, neither.—You’s lookin’ 
kinder peaked, Missy.” 

“I’m all right. Tell Singsie I said, ‘Thank you.’ 


32 


COME HOME 


I’m going up to my room to rest awhile before I 
dress.” 

“Please’m, kin I come brush yo’ hair?” 

“Yes; you may, Bee. In about ten minutes.” 

Berne went up the creaking outside stairway, 
thrusting aside the vines. She entered her own 
room through a long window on the upper gallery, 
began taking off her clothes. A ray of afternoon 
sun fell upon her, turning her white shoulders to 
golden and her hair to crimson. 

When Beetee came in, Berne lay on the couch 
in a scarlet wrapper, her bare feet on a sweet- 
grass pillow, her head flat, the gorgeous crimsoned 
cascade of her hair falling from the couch to the 
floor. 

Beetee drew up a stool into the sunlight and began 
to brush the silken abundance, with little clucks of 
pleasure. 

From below stairs they heard voices and laughter. 

A knock at the door was followed by, “Are you 
there, Fiammetta?” 

“Come in, Commodore.” 

“What a brilliant picture !” Mr. La Grande was 
surprised into a sudden admiration for his daughter. 
He never thought of her as beautiful. “All those 
golds and reds,—and the touch of black!” He 
laughed. “You should dress to bring out the color 
of you, Flame, not always go ‘half hidden from the 
eye.’ ” 

“Did you v/ant me, Commodore?” 


WEARY WINGS 


33 


He had been avoiding her eyes, but she looked 
straight for his. 

“Just to see if you were home. Mater’s back 
and has brought people for dinner. Where have 
you been, Flame dear?’’ 

“Down the road.” 

He gave her a quick side-glance, was afraid to 
proceed. 

“Come downstairs as soon as you’re rested. 
Mater’ll like it. And—a pretty frock, eh?” 

“Who’s there?” 

“Elodi Huval and young Mrs. Droussard.” 

“That’s nice.” 

He hesitated. 

“And?” 

“And Martin Pinckney.” 

“Is Mr. Pinckney to stay here?” 

“Oh, no! He came from the city with your 
mother; but he’s visiting over at Petite Anse. 
Coming soon?” 

“I’ll be down soon. Has any one said anything 
about Gai-Daf } 

“Daniel Barde? Nothing more than you told 
me. He’s at his grandfather’s. They don’t want 
receptions or celebrations. He must rest.” 

“Poor Gal-Da! All right. I’m coming.” 

“Shall I git out de blue dress full o’ jingle beads, 
Missy?” Beetee asked when he had gone. 

“No; thank you, Beetee. I’m not going to get 
all duded up.” 


34 


COME HOME 


Berne rose, opened the old mahogany armoire- 
doors and lifted down a plain frock of French-blue 
linen. 

“Oh! Miss Berne, honey! You isn’t gwine-a 
wore dat conventorphum dress fo’ company !” Beetee 
begged. 

“Conven —what did you call it, child?” 

“Orphum. Like de li’l orphums in de convent.” 

Berne laughed. “It’ll be fancier when I put on 
the lace collars and cuffs,” she comforted her. 
“Why, look how gay I shall be! Red,”—pointing 
to her hair,—“white and blue. Like the Flag.” 

“Yas’m,” Beetee accepted, unconvinced. “Miss 
Elodi, she got on a pink dress, with pink bead 
dollars and dimes all over her chest and a pink rope 
’round her waist. And she done had on a big, 
floppy hat with a feather—” 

“What kind of a feather?” 

“No’m. None o’ yo f birds. It’s a funeral 
feather. Like on top of a hearse. Just luhlyV ’ 

But Berne resisted the suggestions of ceremonial 
array and put on the conventual blue with its little 
lace collar and cuffs. 

Uncle Llope, called from the fields to serve as 
butler in the evening, in all the pride of his “com¬ 
pany clothes,” was lighting the lamps when she 
entered the room. 

Her father was talking to Mrs. Droussard, a 
slender and beautiful blond matron, not much older 
than Berne. 


WEARY WINGS 


35 


Landry sat on the window-seat, doing the devoted 
to fluttering little hlodi,—all soft flesh, cream-white, 
with black-satin hair and splendid eyes that must 
have been dangerous in her Latin-European ances¬ 
tresses, but in her were softened into typical Creole- 
Acadian gentle warmth and modest sweetness. Her 
tiny feet, prettily shod, were so consciously well- 
placed it was obvious that Elodi was proud of them. 

Mrs. La Grande directed her dashing daintiness 
to Martin Pinckney, a tall, youngish man, who was 
dutifully flattering her. 

Berne’s mother had eyes as fine as her daughter’s, 
but they were hazel and not held wide and still like 
Berne’s. She used them artistically, with an affecta¬ 
tion that had become natural through long custom. 
She had a piquant little face with a dramatic ability 
in it that made it seem expressive of more than 
she actually felt. Ller red-brown hair had been 
henna treated; but she had had the good sense to 
give verisimilitude by leaving a few light touches 
of gray where they did no damage. She was small 
and had the kind of good figure that men prefer 
even in these times of the boy-form cult. 

“So, I was just about to dance with the boy,” 
she was saying. “He’d heard Helen Thurston call 
me ‘Alice La Grande,’ so he said, ‘Miss La Grande,’ 
Heaven bless him! I let him think it—thanking 
Father Time for the unexpected reprieve—when my 
cruel son arrived and said, ‘O Mater!’ Isn’t that 
unnatural treatment? Of course, the boy stared. 


36 


COME HOME 


He was frightened; almost accused me of getting a 
dance under false pretenses. So I let him go,” 
sighing. 

“That was cruel, to him,” said Martin Pinckney 
gallantly. 

“Sweet thing, Martin! But I owe you one, 
Landry, old dear!” 

“Oh! About that midshipman. Sorry. But 
Pm too proud of the Mater not to claim her. Be¬ 
sides, you see, I chaperon for Dad.” 

Berne stood in the doorway unobserved for a few 
minutes. Then Mrs. Droussard saw her. They 
exchanged the glance of friendship. 

“Bright nun,” Ellen Droussard whispered as 
Berne took her hand. “Wearing another pinafore ! 
If you think you hide yourself in those plain things, 
the joke’s on you.” 

Berne smiled. “I’m so glad you came, Nelly 
dear.” 

She kissed her mother and Elodi, extended her 
hand to Martin. He looked at her half affection¬ 
ately, half in appraisement, a pucker between his 
brows. 

“I’m back again,” he said. “Told you I’d be 
here before the cardinals.” 

“That’s good. It’s nice that Mater brought 
you.” 

He colored, laughed, turned again to Mrs. La 
Grande, almost quickly enough to see a flash of 
temper restore itself into a smile on her face. 


WEARY WINGS 


37 


But Berne had received the flash; her head 
dropped for a moment like a sad child’s. 

Ellen Broussard was at her side again. “Tired, 
Berne?” she asked, as they walked away together. 

“Ah, chere! How I am tired!” 

“Doing too much?” 

“No; I think not.” 

“Tired of what, then ?” 

“La vie. Just ‘plum wore out’ with life,” but 
she smiled. 

Mrs. Droussard laughed. “Tired of life! At 
your youth!” 

“But that’s just the point, my dear.” 

“You’re too subtle for me, Berenicia.” 

“Not subtle a bit. Said exactly what I mean. 
But let’s not talk about me. Come; desert the 
Commodore, and let’s sit over there by Elodi and 
Landry and have a chatter.” 

“Oh! Not by them!” 

“Why not?” 

“My dear! Be kind to them.” 

“What? You don’t mean you think Landry and 
Elodi—are interested?” 

“You certainly are direct,” Mrs. Droussard said. 

“Why not, Nelly? Do you think so?” 

Mrs. Droussard made a helpless gesture. 
“Would you like it, Berne? I shall be direct, too, 
you see. Would you care to have them inter¬ 
ested?” 

“Oh! I love Elodi!” 


38 


COME HOME 


“Of course. But don’t evade; that isn’t what 
I asked you.’’ 

“Aren’t we a little premature? Romantic Nelly! 
Come; let’s sit by them. What nonsense!’’ 

But when they joined Elodi and Landry, Berne 
was markedly silent, even for her, and regarded 
them thoughtfully. 

Her father, an effective host, sauntered back and 
forth between their group and Mrs. La Grande who 
was exploiting her pretty profile. Pinckney played 
up to her, and liked to; but she was pleased to see 
that his eyes kept a supplementary interest in Berne. 

He was asking himself whether Berne actually 
attracted him despite her mother’s obviously man¬ 
aging him towards her, or whether he had no real 
interest in her at all but was merely entrapped by 
her resistance to madame’s maneuvers. She cer¬ 
tainly was a dour young thing. Almost caustic. 
Pretty, if she dressed better. That hair! They’d 
certainly put him next her at dinner. Berne would 
hate it, and that would provide an amusing situation. 

When he did take his seat beside her at dinner 
he roused her beyond his expectations. 

He was saying, “Too bad about Dan Barde; isn’t 
it? Frightfully ‘done!’ Cantrelle and I dragged 
him about until the poor chap frankly begged us 
not to try to entertain him; said he needed to be 
alone.” 

“He will get well, though,” Berne stated firmly. 


WEARY WINGS 


39 


“Oh! To be hope’!” cried Elodi, clasping her 
hands. “I saw him when he passed from the train 
today; and, chere f it is a crime to permit that a man 
can be so beautiful!” 

“Louisiana will make him well,” said Berne. 
“You know the legend about Bayou Vermilion?” 
to Martin. “When you have once sailed Vermilion 
water, you must come back to it, and when her 
children come in illness, the old bayou restores 
them.” 

“You believe that?” 

“I have found the bayou very restorative.” 

“It is Berenicia’s bayou,” said Elodi. “More 
than the pilots and those fishermen, even, Berne, 
she knows that bayou. You must believe all she 
tells of Vermilio-n.” 

“You must get her to show it to you,” Ellen 
Droussard suggested to tease Berne. “It’s a gem 
of a stream.” 

“Wild and very romantic; isn’t it, dear?” Mater 
appealed to her husband’s cryptic smile. Wou 
should see it under the moon, Martin.” 

“Let’s do it,” Martin Pinckney took his cue. 
“We ought to take Daniel Barde with us, I sup¬ 
pose,” he added to Berne. 

“I mean to take him on the bayou,” said Berne. 

Martin laughed, but he was chagrinned. That 
was almost rude, he thought. 

Berne had not meant to be rude. “You’d be 


40 


COME HOME 


bored, I’m sure,” she hastened to say, reading his 
thought. “But, of course I shall be glad to show 
you the bayou, if you really want to see it.” 

He absolved her with a look, but her mother was 
not so forgiving. 

“Miss Berenicia is right to be interested in 
Barde,” Martin said. “For she was the only thing 
in New Orleans in which he showed the slightest 
interest.” 

“In me?” 

“Saw you at the theater and asked questions.” 
He had his private revenge on Berne, recalling that 
conversation and Cantrelie’s description of her. 

Under cover of the general talk, she asked him, 
“Did you tell Dan Barde who I was?” 

Taken off guard, he replied, “No.” Then flush¬ 
ing, under her wide gaze, he hastened to explain, 
“We wanted to keep him guessing. Good for him.” 
But he feared this girl saw through him. A most 
detestable trait in woman, he thought, the ability to 
see through you. 

He did not return to the project of touring Bayou 
Vermilion as he had intended to do, before leaving 
that night; but drove off with the others, bidding 
Berne good-night rather stiffly. 

Mrs. La Grande’s pretty gaiety departed with her 
guests. 

She was suddenly dejected, pitying herself to the 
point of tears, would soon lash herself into a lady¬ 
like hysteria. 


WEARY WINGS 


41 


Berne braced herself for a scene; she knew all 
the symptoms. They always began as now with an 
appalling coldness, an atmosphere of injury stoically 
borne, of patient martyrdom that goaded the victims 
into the mistake of fawning, cajoling, begging to be 
told what the matter was, putting up some groping 
self-defense, trying to appease. Then came the 
temper and tears. 

When Mr. La Grande or Landry was enrolled as 
culprit in these dramas, they always surrendered 
early, put themselves in the wrong, became alarmed, 
wretchedly protective, found themselves apologiz¬ 
ing for sins they had not committed, or volunteering 
promises that had been the little lady’s objective 
from the start. 

But Berne was a woman and knew by instinct that 
the temptation to use weakness and suffering as 
weapons is in every woman’s soul, inherited from 
the days when her dependence was woman’s only 
strength; and she felt in her own soul that the test 
of a woman is the degree of her resistance to this 
temptation toward emotional bullying. Berne loved 
her pretty, temperamental mother, rejoiced in her 
charm; but she had a fine contempt for scenes like 
these and refused to be cowed by them. There is 
a hardness in youth; there is no denying it. 

“Mater,” she said now, inexpressibly weary. 
“Please don’t. If you’re going to have a weep be¬ 
cause I didn’t show off for Martin Pinckney, Pm 
sorry as can be. I don’t want to make you weep, 


4 2 


COME HOME 


—God knows. But why should I show oft for him? 
I can’t; that’s all.” 

“ ‘Show off!’ How dare you accuse me of such 
vulgar intentions? Because I want you to look 
well—pretty—for guests! Because I have some 
pride in you, if you haven’t for yourself! Don’t 
think I’m blind, my dear. To appear before a man 
like Martin Pinckney dressed as a waitress! 
To snub him! It’s insulting to me to snub my 
guests.” 

“ ‘Snub,’ Mater dear?” 

“Don’t appear innocent. Landry noticed it, too. 
And your father. Didn’t your” 

Mr. La Grande looked forlorn, made no reply. 

“Well, at least Landry knows what I’m trying to 
do for us all. If no one else appreciates—” 

Mr. La Grande made a feeble protest of affection. 

“Yes, indeed, Mater,” said Landry, soothingly. 
“We all appreciate. Even Camille does, though I 
do think she behaved mighty foolishly to-night.” 

“Thanks, Bud,” said Berne, very white. 

“There! Your brother and father agree w r ith 
me. Don’t you?” to her husband. 

“Say yes, Commodore,” said Berne. “I’ll under¬ 
stand. Don’t mind me.” 

Then Mrs. La Grande's lady-like hysteria came in 
a flood, a spoiled child's fit of sobbing. In the 
midst of it Berne spoke; and her mother’s sobs 
stopped abruptly, chopped sharp by the clear chisel- 
cut of Berne’s voice. 


WEARY WINGS 


43 


“Stop!” she cried. “I can't stand any more." 
Then, after a silent moment. “Good-night, Mater 
dear. I’m sorry. ’Night, Commodore. ’Night, 
Bud." 

Berne went to her room, locked the door. 

But later, when the house was quiet, when her 
mother’s light was out, and Landry’s, Berne slipped 
the glorious red gown over her night dress, let her 
splendid hair fall loose and went downstairs and into 
the living-room again. 

Her father was there, as she knew he would be, 
reading by the one lighted lamp. 

“Flame, dear!’’ he said pityingly, put his arm 
around her. 

He had pitied and fondled his wife in the same 
manner a short while before; had let her cry herself 
comforted on his shoulder. He was sorry for them 
both. He saw with a sudden pang the shadows un¬ 
der his daughter’s eyes. 

But Berne had not come to be pitied. 

“Commodore," she said, putting her hands on his 
shoulders, raising her tired eyes to him. “Aren’t 
you ready to tell me about the man—you waved 
to?" 

He started. Then, “No, daughter. Not yet. 
You—you will have to trust me. I know—’’ 

“Of course , Commodore! It’s up to you, Boss. 
You is de big boss, Boss," she smiled. “But I 
wanted you to know—I knew." 

He was vastly unhappy. She patted his arm. 


44 


COME HOME 


“Commodore, get the fiddle and play for me. 
There’s a dear.” 

“Too late, honey. They’ll be disturbed. Your 
mother—” 

“Oh, very softly! They won’t w r ake, off there in 
the wing. I need it.” 

She climbed upon one of the broad window-seats. 
He got his violin. 

“What shall I play, dear?” 

“Sarasate ,—The Lark. I want something that 
soars and sings.” 

He played. She sat in the shadows of leaves, 
dappled with moonlight, her shawl of glowing hair 
touched by the lamplight’s fingers. She drew up 
her knees, dropped her head upon them. 

Sarasate’s Lark sang gently in the room. Out¬ 
side two rapturous mocking-birds took up the lark’s 
gladness. 

At last Berne lifted her head, drew a breath. 

“Thank God for birds!” she said. “I’m better 
now. Thank you, Commodore. Don’t read too 
late. I wonder if Dan Barde is hearing the 
mocking-birds. Good-night, dear.” 

Berne went to bed. 


CHAPTER IV 


THE ROAD TO THE WOODS 

A T breakfast, at the head of his mahogany 
table, narrow, long and massive, like a re¬ 
fectory board,—it had arrived in Louisi¬ 
ana whe<n Carondelet was Governor,—sat General 
Odillon Barde. 

As he opened his shrimps, piled pink and high on 
their bed of ice and red peppers, occasionally he 
paused, sharpened his eyes,—still keen behind the 
dulling of age, like flashlights in a fog,—and re¬ 
garded his grandson, seated mid-table at his right. 

Dan had been in bed all of the day before, the day 
of his arrival in Cureville, pitifully tired. This 
breakfast time afforded the General his first long 
scrutiny of him. 

General Barde liked what he saw. A little too 
good-looking, perhaps. All the Barde men had 
that to overcome; the General acknowledged it 
without conceit; considered it a handicap. The lad 
had the high cheekbones, the fine deep-set eyes of 
the ancetres, their strong slightly Caesarian nose 
and the beguiling mouth that had been the bane of 
several. 


45 


4 6 


COME HOME 


The General stroked his small gray mustache 
and narrow goatee, conscious of such a mouth be¬ 
tween them. But the General’s mouth had always 
been as firm at the corners as it was now. Dan’s 
brought a question to his thought. How much of 
this languor, this slack, was physical, temporary)? 
Was not part of it temperamental, perhaps? 
Could part of it be, like the luxuriant hair, fem¬ 
inine,—his mother’s? 

General Barde rebuked himself, “On guard!” 
He must not let his feeling about the mother prej¬ 
udice him a hair’s-breadth against this boy. 

“Daniel,” he said. “This is a dream come true 
to me. I suppose you know? To have you seated 
here.” 

“Thank you. It’s good to be here with you, too, 
sir.” 

( ‘Merci. Ah! We shall see. You/r father was 
my favorite—I—” the old gentleman wiped a tear, 
unashamed. “We are not ashamed of feeling, we 
old Louisianians,” he explained. “You have lived 
in the North, my boy; but you are all the same a 
Creole of Louisiana. It is a matter of special in¬ 
heritance, I please myself to think, the feeling of 
Louisiana in the heart. You have it? No?” 

“Why, sir, I—” 

“Well! We shall see. If you are one of us,— 
as I think,—you will have the flame within.” 

“ ‘The flame within’?” 

“It is an expression I learned from a little one 


THE ROAD TO THE WOODS 


47 


who has it. I wonder if you remember a red-haired 
child you used to—but, no! How could you re¬ 
member ?” 

“Camille La Grande?” 

A fine pleasure glowed in the old man’s face. 

“Ah! You have not entirely forgotten the little 
days?” 

“I’m afraid I don’t remember very much. But 
I’ve not forgotten the day you bought me my pony, 
sir, nor—” 

“Say ‘Grandpere / ” the General cried, delighted. 

“Nor the time you taught me to swim in the 
bayou, Grandpere, and black Mammy Loulou 
scolded us.” 

“Admirable! And you remember Camille,— 
Berenicia, too?” 

“Oh, she left me a souvenir,” Daniel laughed, 
lifting the wave of hair that fell on his forehead. 
“You see this wound?” revealing a long, faint 
scar. “Our small friend and a well-aimed oyster- 
shell! I had questioned her veracity,—no; it 
wasn’t hers! It was her brother’s. He had fibbed, 
too. But I dare say I wasn’t very polite about 
telling them so. Poor kid! How scared she was 
when she saw the blood! I believe it spouted 
rather spectacularly. Her face frightened me more 
than the pain did. Made me think she’d killed me. 
She stood there so white and sobbing without tears. 
I can see her yet. I believe we were always scrap¬ 
ping. Is she a pet of yours, sir?” 


4 8 


COME HOME 


The old gentleman rose with some difficulty; his 
cane was hooked behind his chair. He lifted his 
coffee-cup. 

“Berne?” he said. “A pet? A glory! There 
is a woman, that little girl!” He drank to her. 

Daniel was amazed at this new version of Camille 
La Grande, so different from Cantrelle’s and from 
Mme. Boutin’s too. He wondered about it while 
the General gave orders for the day, in French, to 
the old negro who served them. 

But this one’s attention wandered to Daniel. 
“Dien de dieu!” he kept muttering happily to him¬ 
self. “Gai-Da! Chez-lui! Ts, ts, ts!” 

Dan offered his arm as they left the table to¬ 
gether; but General Barde kept his weight on his 
cane. 

“Later, my boy,” he said, patting his hand. 
“When you are strong. Have patience with thy¬ 
self, dear lad. I understand. I, too, have been a 
soldier.” 

They sat on the shaded porch of the broad old 
homestead at the end of an avenue of oaks that 
led to the dusty village street. The perfume of the 
morning filled the air. 

Dan made an effort at conversation, could see 
that his grandfather liked to talk about Flame. 

“Where does she live, your protegee ,—in the old 
place?” 

“ < Protegee } ! Berne should hear you! Yes; they 
still live, the La Grandes, on lie Imaginaire, though 


THE ROAD TO THE WOODS 


49 


madame maintains also an apartment in New 
Orleans with Landry,—the boy who fibbed to you.” 

“lie? I don’t seem to recall the place as an 
island.” 

“And therefore Imaginaire, perhaps!” He 
laughed. “But, no. They are islands,—after a 
fashion. A chain of them,—land islands, hilly and 
wooded, set in the sea of prairies, divided from 
the flat lands by bayous and coulees; a strange and 
—we think in these parishes—a delightful forma¬ 
tion. The only high land in the Coast parishes, 
lie Imaginaire is the least of them. They are due, 
many think, to the salt. The salt mines should in¬ 
terest you—an engineer. Well, soon you shall see 
everything.” 

“May I see the country to-day, sir, a little? You 
said something last night about Uncle Douglas and 
the buggy. I think ambling along these roads would 
be pleasant.” 

Anything would be better, he thought, than sitting 
still thinking, or driving himself to conversation,— 
or, worse, having neighbors come to inspect him. 

Of that there was no danger. Though he did 
not know it, he had already been inspected upon 
his arrival, from behind many a drawn blind. 
Understanding kindness had hidden the observers, 
as it had filled the old house with cut flowers and 
the General’s larder with jellies and fresh-baked 
brioche and newly caught terrapin and eggs clear 
as lanterns and a bucket of milk foaming with cream. 


50 


COME ROME 


Already the neighbors were talking about him in 
gossipy groups under the lilac-flowered chinaberry 
trees and over cigars on the benches of the court¬ 
house sauare. And not a word but friendship 
prompted it! 

“To be sure! Baptiste shall call old Douglas. 
Landry La Grande, I was saying, has just pur¬ 
chased a seat on the Exchange. They sold the city 
house, a good place of the old regime, to pay for 
it; and probably much else. Landry is the pam¬ 
pered heart’s-dear of his mother. The worse for 
him!” 

His keen eyes saw his grandson start, blush, look 
troubled at that. “Ah! I feared as much. But 
there is good hope if the lad knows it,” thought 
General Barde. 

“They are not rich, then?” 

“Rich! del! The epic of rice and cane and 
cotton and cattle in these days,—will some one w T rite 
it?—how this far-South suffers in supplying these 
most useful things! But La Grande, pere, would 
never be rich, even in better times. Your friend, 
Raoul Cantrelle,—who has a Balsacian tongue,— 
calls him ‘The Crookometer,’ says any one who can 
resist imposing on La Grande is completely honest. 
One scheme after another, usually little balloons; 
gas, explosion, collapse ! And madame ,—the beau¬ 
tiful ladies must have social life, of course. This 
is altogether natural. But it is no longer inexpen- 


THE ROAD TO THE WOODS 


5i 


sive, in these days. And the golden one must bear 
all on her little straight shoulders!” 

“Why must she)?” 

“Why?” The General paused, arrested by the 
question. “No one ever thought to ask that be¬ 
fore,” he said, with a twinkling eye. “Why? Be¬ 
cause she is Berne, I suppose. Or,— tiens! —be¬ 
cause she can. That is the answer. Because she 
can. It is a rule of life. Who can, must.” 

“Pretty hard on the kid, though.” Dan was re¬ 
membering that unguarded moment on the train. 

“Yes. But it is not easy to pity Berenicia. You 
shall see.” The General held her in his mind in 
silence, picturing her as, indeed, she was that morn¬ 
ing, in her suit like a Boy Scout’s, on horseback since 
dawn, hatless, the early sun making aureoles in her 
hair. 

Berne was all for business now, no longer the 
girl of train or window-seat. 

The negroes, men and women, working in her 
fields, who raised themselves from their hoes as 
she passed, the Acadian shovel-man,—white but 
burned to copper,—walking the dikes of the paneled 
rice-field that skirted Bayou Vermilion, the black 
cow boy on the green-gold flat savane } saluted her 
warmly; but not with the holiday tenderness they 
reserved for ladies driving by. Berne was Boss 
here; they came to her for orders, for protection, 
for privilege, treated her as the head of the plan- 


5 2 


COME HOME 


tation, just as they did “Mister Jonas” of Gertrude 
or “Mister Ned” of Petite Anse, or any of the 
great masculine planters of the neighborhood. 

But many looked after her with a vague expres¬ 
sion of pride-with-sorrow, or muttered “Po’ lamb” 
or “Lawd he’p us all!” as the horse went on. Aunt 
Elbe in the plowed field, old and wise, expressed it. 
“If’n de plantation was only doin’ mo’ prosperous, 
or if Missy yonder w T as a boy, seems as how ’twould 
be mo’ natural. But de days and de ways is de 
Lawd’s and de curiouser things is de less cure dey 
is fo’ dem. So best just keep on diggin’.” Sigh¬ 
ing, she wiped her hands on her tan head-dress 
bandanna, tucked up her skirt a little higher under 
the rusty man’s-coat she wore, dug into the rich 
black earth. 

Across the raised road between the sky-blue, 
flooded panels of the rice fields, the raised road that 
skirted the flowery coulee f the hoof-beats of an¬ 
other horse were heard, pounding fast. 

Into the open of the main highway, where the 
great oak marked the turn, this horse appeared, a 
glorious “blue” filly, high-bred, light as a dancer, 
graceful as a bird. On her back, a young man in 
jeans, with an overseas cap on his head and his 
bright-blue eyes hungry for Berne. 

He gave a whoop when he saw her and the little 
mare fairly flew to overtake her. 

Berne was busy with the shovel-man, trying to 
satisfy him that the pump and tractor would be re- 


THE ROAD TO THE WOODS 


53 


paired before real damage could happen, trying to 
reassure him that there would soon be another man 
to help him open and shut the dikes, to take his 
place when his rheumatism insisted. 

“But Miss Berne, chere y ,} said poor Onestide, his 
gray head shaking and a tear on the copper of his 
cheek. “This rice, she got to be protect.’ No use 
plant him, if we cannot protect. Maybe come’ no 
rain. Maybe the bayou go low. Maybe we got 
take good care this salt Gulf water, she not pass 
in, back up in the rice—” 

“God forbid!’’ 

“Sometimes care in good time, it help God to 
forbid, Miss Berne. Also the little levees, you 
know they must be watch’. This rice, she got to 
have enough w'ater, not too much. This rice, she is 
like the ladies,—you got to be experienced man to 
know just what she want; is it not?” He allowed 
himself a chortle. “Got to have good man help me. 
Yes. And how we goin’ keep enough right water 
pass here in the rice, if we got no good pump, Miss 
Berne ?” 

“She’ll do for awhile, Onestide. Don’t worry. 
Mr. Jonas is coming to look after her for us.” 

“To lookl Dieu te benissel Monsieur Jonas is 
very wise man, very fine planter, very good neighbor, 
yes,—but he cannot make good a pump by looking 
at him. Oo—ee!” 

“Don’t cry, Onestide. He’ll find a way to fix it. 
You’ll see. Things will be better soon. Au’voir y 


54 


COME HOME 


Onestide.—Hello, Odrasse! Va bien?” to the boy 
on the “blue” filly, who took off his cap, devoured 
her with his eyes. 

He had been waving to her as he came and re¬ 
sented the absorption that withheld her response. 
He held back his lively young mare to keep pace 
wfith her slower horse, as she turned again into 
the road. 

“Good to be home!” said Berne. “What a morn¬ 
ing!” She breathed deep of the cherokee roses that 
made miles of natural hedges, and lifted her eyes 
to the distance where the woods began, blue-green 
with cypress trees, black-jade with water-oak and 
magnolia. 

“This is where you belong, Berne. Not in the 
city. Isn’t it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Berne?” 

“Odrasse?” 

“They’re not going to sell lie Imaginaire,—your 
parents?” His voice was not quite steady. 

“What do you mean?” She turned in the saddle, 
faced him. 

“Then, they’re not? }} 

“Of course not. What did you mean, Odrasse?” 

“I’m so glad it’s not true! They said Mr. La 
Grande had been trying to sell some land. They 
said it was foolish now. Market’s down to noth¬ 
ing.” 

“All nonsense, ’Drasse.” But her color had 


THE ROAD TO THE WOODS 


55 


faded. What had her father been trying to do? 

They were leaving the fields, nearing the myste¬ 
rious dusky brightness of the sky-line woods. 

Behind them, under the oak that marked the 
joining of coulee -road and highway, a slow buggy 
was turning, bearing brown Uncle Douglas, thin 
and grizzled but alert and young for all his 
eighty years, and Dan Barde, old, listless and lan¬ 
guid for all his handsome youth. 

Uncle Douglas was boasting of his lusty age. 
“Yassah; I is old. I is a old man. I was hyere 
when de stars fell. Dat’s a long time back. 
Niggers ought to stay in de country. You don’t see 
no city niggers old and spry like we-uns is. Ma 
age is old, but ma actin } is young. Excusin’ mase’f, 
Mister Daniel, I is ’most as spry as you is.” 

“Sprier, I’m sure.” Dan’s eyes were attracted by 
the two riders far ahead. “That’s a fine horse, that 
grayish one,” he said. 

“Blue. Yassah. Sho’ is. And a fine rider, too. 
Um-um! Mist’ Odrasse kin make dat filly dance 
on a plate. Yassah. Sho’ kin. A!nd go ! Ought 
to see dat horse go when he gits her goin’! Just 
holdin’ her back now to keep pace with Miss Berne. 
Mist’ Odrasse certainly enjoys followin’ Miss Berne 
around.” He chuckled. 

“Berne,” Odrasse was saying reproachfully. 
“You didn’t write to me when you were in the city.” 

Berne looked at him in frank astonishment. 

“Why, Odrasse, did you expect me to?” 


56 


COME HOME 


“I went to the post-office every day, every 
train.” 

“Why on earth didn’t you say you wanted a 
letter? I was pretty busy; but I’d have gladly 
written, Odrasse.” She gave him a friendly little 
smile. 

“Didn’t you think of me at all?” 

“Why, yes, I did. I saw a picture of a splendid 
horse in the Sunday paper, and I cut it out for you 
because it looked like your Vitesse. But,”—dep- 
recatingly,—“I forgot to bring it.” 

He saw that Berne was not coquetting; was simply 
telling a fact. Elodi Huval, in the days when she 
had been his girl, Elodi would have played the game. 
If she had said this, it would have been to provoke 
him; he’d have teased her in return. But Berne 
was so direct, so indifferent! It hurt so to love 
her. She kept jabbing a man and never knew she 
had hurt him. He’d tell her what he felt. He had 
to. He’d make her know it. He couldn’t stand 
it any more, everybody thinking Berne was his girl, 
—except Berne. 

“I can’t stand it, Berne. Listen, Berne,” he be¬ 
gan, leaning towards her. 

But her attention had left him. “Look! Look!” 
she cried, pointing upward, her face and hand up¬ 
raised toward a soaring whiteness against the 
zenith, to something like a daylight crescent-moon 
in flight. “A snowy heron! Making for our pool; 
I’m sure.” 


THE ROAD TO THE WOODS 


57 

“Oh, listen, Berne!” Odrasse seized her upraised 
hand, brought it down, held it. 

Daniel Barde saw this gesture as the horses were 
disappearing behind a bend in the wooded road. 

“Let’s stop here awhile, Uncle Douglas,” he said, 
and the buggy slowed up in the shade of a hack- 
berry tree. 

Dan told himself he was avoiding spying unin¬ 
tentionally on a possible idyl; but he knew in his 
heart he was just avoiding looking at what he did 
not want to see. But why in blazes should he find 
it disagreeable to see this country boy take Flame’s 
hand? 

“All right, sah, Boss,” Uncle Douglas was saying. 
“Us’ll turn de buggy ’round, keep you out’n de wind. 
De East wind is like some folks is,—always on- 
pleasant, no matter f’um what direction it’s a- 
blowin’.” 

Meanwhile Odrasse was insisting, “Please listen 
to me.” 

Berne halted her horse, turned her clear eyes to 
him. Then she saw in the lad’s face what he was 
trying to say. 

“Oh! No! Don’t say it. I know what you 
want to say,” she cried quickly. “Sorry, Odrasse. 
But you’d better not say it, old fellow. Someday 
you’ll be glad you didn’t.” 

His eyes filled. Was ever a girl like this,—so 
downright ? 

“Oh, all right,—if you say so!” he grumbled, ex- 


58 


COME HOME 


asperated. “But you’re hard on me. Berne, is 
there some one else?’’ 

“Nobody except Little Brother.” She laughed. 
“You ought to see him drilling with the big boys. 
Such a man! )} 

“But you do meet men in the city. You do—” 

“Nonsense! Men don’t like me and I’m too 
busy to think about them. You’re a child, Odrasse. 
Why don't you go play with Elodi, as you used tOj?” 

“ ’Cause I’m not a child any more. And Elodi 
isn't either. She likes—somebody else, too, now. 
Berne, you’re going to let me see you now,—just 
as often,—just the same?” 

“For heaven’s sake, why not? What a notion! 
Now, please, let’s not talk about it any more.” 

After a silence, he complied, “General Barde's 
grandson’s in the parish; did you know? The one 
the papers were full of.” 

“Yes. We came on the same train.” 

“Oh!—I wish F d got over there before the fight¬ 
ing was almost done. Of course, I don’t say I 
could have—” 

“You’d have done as well as any one did. But 
I’m glad you didn’t have to kill anybody. Doesn’t 
belong to you,—killing." 

“Why? ’Cause I’m a kid?” 

“No. A planter,—a life-giver.” 

The boy flushed, pleased. “But—you were 

mighty proud about Barde,—from this parish.” 

“Yes, indeed.” She said it with an unconscious 

V 


THE ROAD TO THE WOODS 


59 


fervor that rasped his youthful jealousy. “He was 
my baby playmate, you know.” 

“Oh!” 

The horses were going now under moss-festooned 
arches of the winding-road; the fans of palmetto 
edged it, glowing dark against the gay young foliage 
of the shrubs behind them. Here and there a 
flow r ery coulee or canal broke glimmering through 
the under brush. There were many turns in the 
roadway; the horses were now seen, now lost by 
Dan in the ambling buggy again following in the 
distance. 

After awhile Berne said, “You say Elodi has a 
new little romance?” 

“They’re talking about it. Of course, I don’t say 
it’s so.” He remembered ruefully that his friends 
coupled his own name with Berne’s. 

“Landry?” 

“Well, they say so.” 

“Odrasse, keep a friendly eye on Elodi; won’t 
you? Take her about sometimes,—the way you 
always did.” 

“Oh! Elodi can look out for herself!” Tie 
laughed. 

“Of course. And doesn’t need to, with my 
brother. But just keep in touch with her, please.” 

“All right. I guess I understand.” 

“Lan’s much older. And used to girls. And not 
nearly so—intense. That’s all. Elodi’s such a 
honey!” 


6o 


COME HOME 


“I’ll do anything you want me to, Berne.” 

“I know it, ’Drasse. And it won't be hard to 
play around with Elodi. Now, I—I’ll have to leave 
you. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I'll have to send 
you back.” 

“Why, why? Where are you going?” 

“Into the swamp, a little way.” 

“Not into the Big Woods!” 

“Just a little way.” 

“But, my dear girl! You can’t go into the woods 
alone. Maybe swamp niggers— It isn’t safe. 
You know that.” 

“Quite safe. I won’t be alone long. And I’ve 
this, you know.” She drew a small but businesslike 
Colt from her hip pocket. 

Odrasse teased, “Ohho! That looks pretty, for 
a girl who doesn’t like killing.” 

She answered his smile. “I won’t have to use it. 
Good-by, Odrasse.’’ 

“Berne, I simply can’t let you go into the swamp 
by yourself. Your father’d never forgive me. 
He’d be right, too. I’m going with you.” 

“I won’t be alone, Odrasse. Not long.” 

“Who, then?” 

“An appointment. It’s all right. Truly.” 

“Then why can’t I—” 

“No, Odrasse. Thank you; but please go back. 
I assure you I’m safe.” 

“And won’t tell me—” 


THE ROAD TO THE WOODS 


61 


“So sorry!” 

“Good-by, then.” He turned sulkily, deeply 
hurt. 

Berne put her hand on his sleeve. He checked 
rein. 

“ ’Drasse.” she said. “I couldn’t bear to hurt 
your feelings. Please don’t be fache!” 

“All right,—dear. Good-by, then.” 

He went off slowly, frequently looking back in the 
hope of being recalled. But the horses bore their 
riders apart until the turning road hid them from 
each other. 

After a little the “blue” filly met a buggy. 

Odrasse slowed up, bowed, after the manner of 
the country; greeted Uncle Douglas with a waving 
hand and his passenger with “Good morning, sir!” 
He knew this must be Daniel Barde. “Fine morn¬ 
ing for a drive.” 

Dan nodded, smiled, said nothing. But Uncle 
Douglas answered, “Yassah. We isn’t gwine much 
fu’ther, howsomebber. I’s just gwine take Mister 
Daniel to de edge of de Big Woods.” 

The hypersensitive boy’s heart gave a jolt. He 
rushed headlong to a conclusion. Berne was going 
to meet Dan Barde, and had not told him! She 
wanted to show the Big Woods to Barde,—alone! 
Dismissed him like a child! 

The “blue” mare went so fast that Odrasse could 
scarcely have seen the passing landscape, even 



62 


COME HOME 


had his eyes not been blinded by angry tears. 

Berne rode on toward the swamp, her tiny pistol 
accessible. Her head was held high, wide eyes alert, 
like the head of a mother-bird, defiant for her nest, 
on guard. 


CHAPTER V 


AT THE MARGE 

O VER the trembling floor of the swamp, 
where first the glimmering ooze changes 
into true water, a pirogue glided noise¬ 
lessly, with the still, snakelike motion of these log 
dug-out canoes. 

A water-moccasin slipped out of the boat’s path. 
The shining waters quivered about it. 

The cypress trees and tupelo gums, standing on 
tall stems like aquatic birds, their arched root-talons 
in the mud, their glinting plumage high above, 
seemed to sway gently with the swaying water. 
Streams of moss waved like the veils of old dryads. 
Long blades of sunlight, brilliant as acetylene, cut 
dazzlingly through the gloom. Against the cathe¬ 
dral-window patches of green leaves and blue sky, 
birds were flying. 

The pirogue stopped beside an open space, where 
sun and sky shone bright, reflected in the water. 
Underbrush and vine-tangle made a covert for the 
boat. 

There were two men in it. The man whom 
Beetee had called “Prowler” held a gun across his 
knees; a younger man was paddling, punting. 

63 


64 


COME HOME 


“No more far than here?” this one asked. 
“You say, ‘Stop'? We have not passed in the 
woods yet. This is only the beginning—” 

“Never mind. This’ll do. I saw one here 
yesterday.” 

“One?” 

“Somewhere around here,” the Prowler said in 
a husky undertone. “Be still. Look. There goes 
one now. Bet he’s coming this way.” 

His companion laughed. “A crane! A heron! 
We are come to see a crane? But, my friend, 
I can show you,—other side the woods, over passed 
the little bayou, toward the plantation of Odrasse 
Guidry, next by lie Imaginaire,—I can show m’sieu’ 
a thousand herons. And at Petite Anse,—a hun¬ 
dred thousand.” 

“Like as not,” said Prowler. “But if I shoot a 
bird now in the Imaginaire heronry it may inter¬ 
fere with my plans. And if I shoot one in the 
Petite Anse, I’ll be shot myself.” 

The other turned as pale as layers of sunburn 
would let him. He took up the paddle, began to 
drive the pirogue quickly from the underbrush 
covert. 

“What the hell’re you doing?” cried the Prowler. 

The younger man,—he was big, ungainly, with 
Voluptuous mouth and roving handsome eyes,— 
said sulkily, “I go home quick, me!” 

“Hold on a minute!” The boat slowed. 
Prowler leaned out, gripped a branch of young 


AT THE MARGE 65 

water-maple. “What’s eatin’ you? What’s the 
matter with you? What you scared of?” 

“M’sieu’, I will not kill herons. It is not for 
herons you tell me we go hunt. To kill an egret 
nowadays, it is to go to jail. Sure pop. Vraiment. 
Mr. Ned of Petite Anse, he would—” 

“ ’Fraid of jail, hey? Not the feller I want for 
the big game, then.” 

“You have not told me we could go to jail for 
that.” 

“Not a chance of it. But it takes a he-man, just 
the same.” 

“I am not scared of the jail. Ah, non. I been 
to jail, me,—two, three time’. But not for killing 
heron’. The law is very bad nowadays for hunt 
the plumes. And Mr. Ned of Petite Anse,—and 
via famille, we live on Petite Anse,—you say your¬ 
self you scared of him! And Uranie,—if I go me 
to the jail encore ,—she goin’ marry that damn’—” 

“Oh, I won’t get you in trouble.” 

“Hunting plumes—” 

“But I’m not plume-hunting. I just want one 
bird. What’s one shot,—’way out here? Lots of 
other things to hunt. Maybe I’m killing a snake or 
a ‘cat’, or anything!” 

“What for you want a heron? One heron pays 
nothing—” 

“Sh!” pointing upward. 

Like the dream of a dream, cloudlike, soft and 
swift, the pure white wings floated overhead, gently 



66 


COME HOME 


came to rest upon a branch of the cypress. The 
light made haloes on the wispy moving fringes of 
plumage. 

The Prowler raised his gun. 

“Drop it!” cried Camille Berenicia, rising in the 
underbrush. “Drop that gun! Quick!” Her 
angry eyes and the eye of the little Colt revolver 
covered him menacingly. 

“Damn!” said the Prowler and dropped the gun. 

u Bonjour f Miss Berne,” the frightened youth 
began; but Berne did not take her eyes from the 
Prowler. 

“What are you; doing on my land?” she asked. 
“Shooting herons?” 

Prowler looked for a tremor in the pistol hand. 
It held steady. His sharp eyes probed the under¬ 
brush. Berne was not in a boat; she had skirted 
the swamp on logs and mud-banks and stood now 
on, a cypress stump in the underbrush tangle. 

“Look out, miss ! A snake !” Prowler cried. 

Berne laughed. “Reckon not,” she said. “And 
I've boots on. Don’t try to trick me into putting 
down the gun. I’ll put it down when you’ve un¬ 
loaded yours.—Oh, you needn’t! The bird’s gone.” 
She had no fear for herself. She put the pistol 
away. “Now tell me what you’re up to on my 
land.” 

“Yours, miss? Thought ’twas your dad’s. He 
give me leave to come on the plantation. Better 
ask him what I’m up to.” 


AT THE MARGE 


67 


“Yesterday afternoon,” Berne said. ‘‘I followed 
you to the hunter’s cabin, where you had left that 
gun. When you’d gone, I questioned him; he told 
me you’d asked him if it were true that a pair of 
great white herons had visited here last summer. 
Why did you want to know that? He said you’d 
left a message with him for Borel,—to row you 
here this morning. Here where egrets are building. 
Why are you after herons? Are you a plume- 
hunter? I can send you to jail for what I’ve heard 
and seen.” 

“Oh, I guess not! Better ask your father first.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Ask your father!” He laughed insinuatingly. 
“Before you go jailing me.” 

“Listen to me. If you have business with my 
father, attend to it, and leave the birds alone. 
Whatever it is, you’d better understand that 
he won’t cover up any misbehavior,—or killing 
birds.” 

Prowler snorted. 

“But, even if he would,—you get this straight,— 
/ wouldn’t. And if you go after plumes around 
here, you’re headed for the penitentiary. You get 
that too, Borel,—you poor fool!” 

“Je vous assure, Miss Berne,—honest to God, 
Miss Berne, I never believe this man wish to hunt 
heron’. Je ne le connais pas ,—I don’t know this 
man very moch, me. Non! Non!” 

“Hope you have too much sense to hunt plumes, 



68 


COME HOME 


Borel. You’ll get in trouble once too often. Better 
be thinking what you’ll say to Mr. Ned.” 

“Aw, God! Miss Berne, chere! You ain’ goin’ 
tell—” 

“Mr. Ned is coming here. I sent for him last 
night. I thought he’d get here before you did. 
We’ll all just wait here and talk this over with 
him.” 

“Like hell we will!” said Prowler. “You get 
this boat out o’ here, Borel. Pronto 

“Not any!” Berne’s little pistol flashed out. 
“We’re going to settle this now,—with Mr. Ned. 
It’s too much for me; but he’ll talk to you. I’m 
going to find out what you’re up to, and if it’s plume 
hunting, who’s behind you.” 

“Mon dieu! Jesu! Have the pity, Miss Berne! 
Mr. Ned, he already very mad to me. Oh, please 
let me save myse’f, Miss Berne. I will swear—” 

It did not suit the Prowler’s purposes to become 
involved with the great planter. He watched his 
moment. As Berne turned her eyes toward Borel, 
and the pistol carelessly toward the ground, the 
Prowler lifted his gun. 

“Don’t be frightened,” he said with a laugh. 
“We won’t hurt you. If you just keep right still, 
—with that hand where it is,—till we pull out o’ 
this. Go ’long, Borel.” 

“Better wait, Borel,” Berne said quietly. “You’ll 
have to see Mr. Ned about this sooner or later, you 
know. I advise you to wait.” 


AT THE MARGE 


69 


“Yes’m; I’ll wait.” 

There was a sudden rustle in the thicket, coming 
closer; the sound of footsteps in the ooze; some one 
blundering through the morass. 

Berne sighed with relief. Not like Mr. Ned to 
come in that fashion, to lose the way; but it must 
be he. 

“Pull out, damn you! Pull like the devil!” the 
Prowler cried to Borel. Borel did not budge. 

“Mr. Ned! Here! Here! Here!” Berne 
called. “This way, Mr. Ned. Be quick!” 

There was no answer. The squashing, rustling 
steps seemed farther away. 

Prowler dropped the gun in the boat, snatched 
the paddle from Borel. He did not believe this 
lady would really shoot. At any rate, it seemed the 
lesser danger. 

“Mr. Ned!” cried Berne. “This way! Hurry! 
Hurry up! Oh, hurry!” 

“Who wants help?—Coming!—Where are you? 
Where?” a voice was calling. 

In duet with this voice, Berne, in order to guide 
her friend, who, she thought, was coming, and to 
hasten him, fired two sharp shots into the air. 

A shriek arose from the distant underbrush, a 
horrible masculine scream of terror. 

Berne tore through water and mud toward it, 
clambering over logs, dragging herself through the 
ooze, forgetful of the fast disappearing boat. 

She heard deep, bass sobs close at hand. She 


7 ° 


COME HOME 


broke through the shrubs on a dry rise of ground. 

There, on a lichen-covered log, in a natural 
garden-bed of swamp-lilies, sat Daniel Barde rocking 
in agony, his face distorted, all the old nerve-wounds 
torn "wide open by the sudden sound of a shot 
through that dead stillness. 

Berne ran to him. 

“Gai-Da! Gat-Da!” She put her arms about 
him, rocked with him, with the soothing rhythm of 
a mother. ‘‘Be still, Gai-Da! Reste la!” 

Obediently he laid his head on her shoulder. 

Berne pressed a comforting cheek on the brown 
hair. “It’s all right, Da. It’s quiet. It’s calm. 
Peace, cker Da! All peace and rest. Be still.” 

Daniel closed his eyes. Little by little, the 
sobbing ceased. He rested in Berne’s arms, still, 
long. 

Then he lifted his hand to her cheek. 

“Flame ! O Flame !” said Dan Barde. 

“Hush, Gai-Da!” Berne whispered. 


CHAPTER VI 


BERNE MAKES A FRIEND 

M R. LA GRANDE was walking through the 
small fig-grove on lie Imaginaire, smoking 
his meerschaum, frowning at the condi¬ 
tion of the trees. 

An angry man came up to him. 

“See here!” the Prowler began. 

“Good morning,” Mr. La Grande replied in mild 
rebuke, looked at the Prowler’s hat. 

“MorninM” dragging the hat off surlily. “Came 
to tell you I’m through. Done!” 

“What do you mean? What’s the matter?’' 

“I mean I’m off this deal. I’m through with 
it.” 

“But you can’t do that!” 

“Like hell I can’t. What’s to stop me?” 
“Here! Sit down,” seating himself at one end 
of a log and pointing to the other. He looked sick 
with apprehension, but spoke lightly. “Are you dis¬ 
couraged? Is that it? Is the place too hard to 
find? Is the map—wrong?” He lowered his 
voice to keep it steady. 

“No. Guess I’ve got it located all right.” 
“Then, why?” 


7 1 




72 


COME HOME 


“It's a shame to throw away all that dough! 
But I ain’t goin’-a stand for womdn bu'ttin’ in. 
Pointin’ guns at me, and talking about the peni¬ 
tentiary like a judge!” 

“Do you mean Miss La Grande? Tell me what 
you do mean. What happened?” 

“I'm done. That’s enough. I tried to talk 
about her keepin’ her hands off before, and you 
treated me like I’d insulted the lady. So I ain’t 
goin’ to say any more. I’m just through!” 

Mr. La Grande gazed on the ground; the Prowler 
cast an uneasy glance out of the corner of his 
shallow eye, pushed back his greasy hair, pre¬ 
paratory to replacing the hat on it, rose with deci¬ 
sion. Mr. La Grande, against his will and nause¬ 
ously against his taste, found himself pleading with 
this fellow to explain. 

Prowler told him that he had not known that 
herons were protected by law; or at least,—in an¬ 
swer to a doubtful smile,—he thought he could get 
away with one or two, get the plumes for a lady. 
“You don’t need to believe me,” he said belliger¬ 
ently. He told what Berne had done, what she 
threatened. “So it’s up to me to beat it. And 
that’s that. Sorry. But—” he made a gesture of 
finality. 

“You have taken a good deal of my money for 
this—enterprise,” Mr. La Grande suggested. 

“ ’Tain’t my fault it’s called off. The money’s 
used.” 


BERNE MAKES A FRIEND 


73 


“If you hadn’t hunted herons,—had stuck to our 
purpose— See here; if what those documents say 
is true, don’t you think you’re rather a fool to go off 
half-cocked like this?” 

Prowler smiled in his hand at Mr. La Grande’s 
nervousness, his pliability and, as he had planned, 
soon left with a promise of protection against both 
neighbor and daughter. 

“I should have taken Flame into my confidence at 
the start,” her father thought. “Now, I fear, it 
will be difficult.” 

Poor gentleman! He was naturally an exquisite; 
the contact with this man hurt him; the whole busi¬ 
ness did. But he was poetical and soon dramatized 
himself to his comfort. He saw himself rather 
heroic, suffering for his family’s good. 

As he turned toward the house, a joyous barking 
broke forth all around it like an explosion of fire¬ 
crackers. Out of the shrubbery an airedale flashed, 
shouting with glee; the big hound chained to his 
kennel began to celebrate and to tug; from the rear 
of the house and around it a small, vibrant Scotch 
terrier flew toward the gate, and little black Beetee, 
waving her arms and shrilling with delight, dropped 
out of a plum tree. 

Mrs. La Grande was hurrying down the shell-lily 
walk. 

“Hello! What’s up?” Mr. La Grande went to 
the gate, too. 

There, surrounded by two rapturous dogs, stood 


74 


COME HOME 


what might, at first glance, seem to be a small post¬ 
man,—a schoolboy in a blue-gray uniform. 

Mr. La Grande started anxiously; then, seeing 
that the newcomer was sound and happy, his face 
cleared. He called out, “Why it’s our young 
military academician! What brings you home, 
sonny?” 

“Where's Sis? Oh, I’m all right!” kissing them. 
“It’s just those darn measles broke out in school. 
—Oh, gee! Mater, don’t be scared. I haven’t got 
’em. And I’m all doped up already; so you needn’t. 
—It was day-scholars, o’course. None of us house¬ 
men. Darn nuisance, day-scholars! Always some¬ 
thin’ !—” 

“Please don’t say ‘darn,’ dear.” 

“All right, Mater. Bringing in measles just when 
we had a game with Rugby ’Cad’my! Sending 
everybody home! I guess we won’t go back now 
till after vacation. Where’s Sis?” 

His mother smiled at him reproachfully. “She’ll 
be back soon. Sister first, still?” She had to flirt 
with every male, even her small son; but there was 
also a sting of sincerity in this. 

“Aw, now, Mater!” squeezing her. Then, “May 
I telephone to Cureville, please’m? And tell the 
boys at Gertrude I’m here?” 

“Right away?” his father laughed. 

“Sure, Dad.” Lad and dogs ran into the house 
from which could soon be heard the boyish tenor, 
eager, almost loud enough to be heard at Gertrude 


BERNE MAKES A FRIEND 


75 


Plantation without aid of the wires, Peter’s father 
thought. “Is Karl home? Well, is Herbert? 
Oh, aren’t they? Not even Leonard nor Bob? 
Gee! Well, then call her, please.—Hello, Mother- 
lie! It’s Pete. Yes’m; I’m home. Measles. Can 
the boys come over? Oh, no, ma’m! / haven’t 

got ’em. Somebody at school. They sent us home. 
Can they? Oh, I’m all healthy,—honest! Will 
you send them over? Oh, thank you, Motherlie!” 
He came running back. “They can come. Guess 
I’ll keep on my uniform till they do.—O Singsie, 
Beetee, Tiny, looky he-re!” 

His mother detained him. “Do you call other 
boys’ mothers ‘Motherlie,’ Peter?” 

“No’m. They call her that.” 

“But you did.” 

“Well,—not exactly. O Beetee—” and he was 
off to the kitchen. 

“He’s the only one who looks like you, the only 
dark one,” his mother said. “But Pm afraid he 
acts a lot like his sister.” 

“Afraid, dear?” 

“Oh, you know what I mean! Don’t take me up 
so. I mean so matter-of-fact. They’re not affec¬ 
tionate, responsive, like Landry. They’re a cool 
pair, those two. No temperament.” 

“Flame will be glad to see Peter,” her father 
evaded the question. 

He wished his daughter would come home. The 
interview was going to be difficult. Temperamental 


76 


COME HOME 


or not, Flame was not going to be patient where the 
slaughter of protected birds seemed to threaten. 
The man was stupid, an idiot! To go involving 
himself in this! The main issue surely offered 
obstacles enough. Why had he wanted an egret? 
The childishness of the ignorant!—Of course, he 
assured himself, he was not really afraid of this 
talk with his little girl; but nevertheless he wanted 
her to come soon and have it over. 

At the marge of the woods, Berne had held Dan’s 
head on her steady shoulder until the silence and 
the cool breath of the forest restored him. 

He was mortified, miserable at his weakness. 
This his return to his old playmate! 

Dan’s humor, never quite asleep, no matter how 
wretched he might be, made him grin wryly; he 
recognized that he had been half-consciously 
planning a rather neat little “approach” to Camille 
Berenicia, his babyhood sweetheart. And now he 
was being nursed. Ouch ! 

He lifted his head, tried not to look ashamed. 

But Berne’s quiet gaze, as impersonal as the 
woods themselves, lessened his embarrassment. 

To Berne it was not a “situation”; he could see 
that. He was just a sick man who had needed her. 

Berne spoke to him, at ease; “as if she were ac¬ 
customed to finding yowling huskies in the brakes,” 
he thought. 

“You came out here alone, Da?” 

“No. Uncle Douglas. I wanted to sit in the 


BERNE MAKES A FRIEND 


77 


woods alone. So he drove down the road to leave 
an order somewhere. I was waiting for him when 
I heard you call,—for help, I thought. You see, 
—a sudden shot,—shooting—affects me. I’m not 
usually— Sorry I made such a—” 

“Please, Da! Of course, we all know; shell¬ 
shock. There are plenty others.” 

“Thanks. But—well! Sweet of you to call me 
‘Da,’—that old name.” 

“Things don’t change much with us down here, 
you know.” 

“Oh, don’t they? You’ve grown into a beauty, 
Flame. You were just a little red-headed monkey.” 

She laughed. He could see that her pleasure was 
for the old remembrance, not for the present com¬ 
pliment. 

How his head swam! Dan was ill, and ashamed; 
but, after all, he was young, too. And here was 
a pretty girl rescuing him! He took the inevitable 
tone. 

“Strange, our meeting here,— this way,—isn’t it? 
After—” he began. 

“My horse is out there,” Berne said briskly. 
“I’ll ride along and hurry up Uncle Douglas. Back 
right away.” 

“Queer girl!” Dan smiled. “Wouldn’t improve 
the romantic occasion for a cent. Maybe that’s 
why she’s restful. Terrifyingly capable. You can 
see that. Wonder if she is cold.—Gosh! I’m 
horribly dizzy.” 


78 


COME HOME 


Cantering down the road, Berne lifted one hand 
from the reins and placed it on the shoulder where 
Dan’s head had rested. Then she pressed its palm 
upon her lips, pressed them hard. 

As she waited at the crossroads, looking for old 
Douglas, an automobile from Petite Anse overtook 
her. 

Not Mr. Ned, however, but Martin Pinckney 
rode in it. 

“Mornin’, Miss Berne,” said the negro driver. 
“Just been lookin’ fo’ you. Mister Ned was down 
to de city when yo’ message done come and de sup’- 
intendent just now got a-holdt of it and sont me 
chasin’ to tell you. But when I got to de woods, 
warn’t nobody dar but a gentleman sleepin’ ’side 
a log.” 

“He’s not sleeping. He is ill. It’s Dan Barde, 
Mr. Pinckney. He had a rather bad attack—” 

“No! Let’s go back there quickly, Tombo!” 
cried Martin. 

When auto and horse had returned to Daniel, 
now standing, rather shakily, Berne reached him 
from her horse before Martin did from the car. 
Her solicitude was plain. 

Martin made a mental picture of the Mater look¬ 
ing on complacently. “Touche, madame! I don’t 
like it very well,” he acknowledged. 

“Too bad, old man!” he said to Dan. 

“All right now, thank you, Pinckney.” He was 


BERNE MAKES A FRIEND 


79 


glad Martin had not seen him making “a beastly 
spectacle” of himself. 

“Mr. Barde ought not ride back in that slow old 
buggy. It’s getting very warm, and much of the 
road is unshaded. Can you take him to Cureville 
in the car, Tombo?” Berne asked. “I’ve only my 
horse.” 

“O Missy!” much troubled. “I’s got orders to 
turn right on back along dis-hyere road home to 
Petite Anse, to git some guestses and take ’em to 
New Iberia befo’ train time.” 

“You’ll have to take him with you to Petite Anse, 
then. I’ll tell Douglas and telephone to the 
General. It’s all right, Da,” to his feeble pro¬ 
test. “They’ve known you at Petite Anse since the 
day you were born, and they’ll want to have you. 
You simply must, Da. I’ll be there this evening,— 
to see Mr. Ned.” 

Dan had not enough energy to resist. And the 
comfortable car did look more inviting just then 
than Uncle Douglas’ buggy. 

“I was going to get some one to give me a lift 
on to Cureville,” said Martin Pinckney. “I’m 
lunching with the Droussards. Maybe Uncle Doug¬ 
las will take me.” 

“Certainly he will. In with you, Da! Tombo 
has to hurry.” 

“Flame,” said Dan for her private ear. “You 
will forgive my being such a nuisance,—so weak—” 


8 o 


COME HOME 


“You’re not a nuisance,” she began. Then, look¬ 
ing in his eyes, Berne said a strange thing. “I 
forgive your weakness, of course. But, Dan Barde, 
don’t you forgive it!” 

“Why,—Flame—” 

“Please get in the car.” 

Dan almost saluted; jestingly, indeed, but some¬ 
thing martial had stiffened him. He took orders 
like a soldier, was driven away, amused, a little re¬ 
sentful, stirred. 

“I found a four-leaf clover this morning,” 
Martin Pinckney was saying to Berenicia as they 
waited under the tree where her horse was tied. 
“And now this tete-a-tete! Pm a convert to signs, 
omens and predictions. You dislike compliments, 
Miss Berne? Or,—only mine?” 

“Did I seem unappreciative? Pm sorry. I have 
a lot on my mind, Mr. Pinckney. I do like com¬ 
pliments and don't get many. That was a nice one. 
Thank you.” 

“You do carry a good deal, Pm afraid.” 

Berne looked up gratefully. Pinckney had 
dropped his lighter manner, was not playing with 
her now. 

“Don’t you ever want just to frivol? Doesn’t 
seem right,—your working all the time.” 

“Because Pm a girl, I suppose? You work, you 
know, practically all the time; all men do. Lots 
of women do, too. No. I love the plantation. 
No man could like it better.” She smiled. 


BERNE MAKES A FRIEND 


81 


Martin was startled. This child, with all the 
guards down, acting at ease with him, was lovely. 

“But it does keep me from ‘thinking pretty,’ as 
Elodi calls it,—and sometimes from being sweet, 
I’m afraid. This is an apology, Mr. Pinckney. I 
know you thought me rude last night. Maybe I 
was. Mater said so.” She blushed. 

“That is very frank—and sweet, too,” said Mar¬ 
tin. “Next time I want to be friends and you 
won’t, I'll try to remember. I’ll say to myself, 
‘This isn’t my personal unpopularity. She’s only 
thinking of the rice crop.’ ” 

He was returning to banter; but Berne would not. 
With boyish directness, she said, “Mr. Pinckney, 
I’d love to be friends,—if you meant that. Just 
as you’re friends with Mr. Ned or Raoul Can- 
trelle. I’d love it.” 

It was his turn to blush. 

“You mean—not flirt with you? Funny child!” 

“I don’t know how. That’s true. And I don’t 
want anybody to be—romantic, gallant, please. It 
embarrasses me. Mater thinks me queer for that 
and it makes us unhappy together. You say 
courtly things to me and I don’t know how to re¬ 
ceive them, because I can’t tell how true they are. 
Then Mater is ashamed of me; it hurts her. But 
if you really want to be friends, Mr. Pinckney, I 
can do that. I admire you. I know you’d be a 
bully friend. And I’ll try to be one, too. 

She extended her hand. Martin gripped it. He 


82 


COME HOME 


looked into her honest eyes, a little pleading now. 
He understood her, at last. 

She needed friends,—he knew that better than 
she did. He would be a friend to her. 

There was none like her, no young girl as frank 
as this to a man. 

“I do understand,” he isaid. “I know what you 
want,—and what you don’t want, too. Let’s be 
friends, Berenicia.” 

“Thank you, Martin.” 

Whereupon, of course, he began to fall in love 
with her. Berne’s mother would have known the 
inevitability of that and laughed at her guileless 
daughter’s unconscious success. 

Berne saw Uncle Douglas coming and went to 
meet him. 

Meanwhile, Mr. La Grande was smoking too 
many pipefuls, as he sat in the living-room window 
hearkening for the hoof-beats of Berne’s horse; and 
his strange associate, the Prowler, had boarded a 
train. 

He was going to New Iberia. He wanted to 
telephone by long distance and did not dare to do 
so from Cureville, too small, too neighborly and too 
near Imaginaire for secrecy. 

From the larger town, he called two numbers in 
New Orleans. First, to a Northern guest in a fash¬ 
ionable hotel he said, “It's all right, Boss. The 
feathers are there. No, sir; I can’t send you one 


BERNE MAKES A FRIEND 83 

to prove quality. Tried it; but somebody’s ‘on’. 
You just got to trust me,—till the time.” 

Then, to a dark, outlawed bar-room in a dark 
outlawed alley lie almost whispered, “Going fine! 
If the stuff’s there; we’ll get it. If it ain’t,— 
there’s still some juice in the boob. What say? 
Well,—the only ‘out’ is the girl. She’s on to some¬ 
thin’. Sure,—a wise one. But—hell!—just a 
girl!” 

Jogging lazily toward Cureville in the old buggy, 
Martin Pinckney watched Berne’s horse disappear in 
the curve of Cherokee roses. 

“The queer little thing does get to you; fact!” 
he was thinking. “Natural enough that her mother 
wants to place her well. Quite right! I could care 
for that youngster. Getting along,—be an old 
beau if I don’t look out. No hurry, though. It’s 
a risky business, marrying. By jove, I’ll be her 
friend! If things do go to smash with them, 
wouldn’t be a bad stunt to see them out of a hole 
by marrying Berenicia. Poor gentleman! And I 
like the child. If I could make her—! I’d have 
to do it all, though. Well,—maybe!” 

In the pretty little plaza before the big red church 
in Cureville, Elodi, under her pink sunshade, met 
Odrasse Guidry tying his “blue” filly to a hitching- 
tree. 

“Bonjour!” She smiled at him through her 
shadowy lashes. “What hast thou, Odrasse? 


8 4 


COME HOME 


What is the matter, my friend? You have the air 
very angry. Has Berenicia been mean to you, poor 
boy?” 

He shrugged and, not very succesfully, laughed. 
He yearned to chastise Elodi. 


CHAPTER VII 


PETER GOES HUNTING 

P ETER catapulted into Berne’s arms as she 
came from the stables. He poured out to 
her all the excitements and trials of the short 
interval since they had met in the city, punctuating 
broken sentences by expressive gasps, in small-boy 
fashion. 

“Why the grand red boots and the basket? Go¬ 
ing somewhere?” Berne asked him. 

“Yes’m. Hunting. With Karl and Herbert. 
I telephoned over to Gertrude and asked, and 
Motherlie let them drive over here. They’re in 
the kitchen now, scrapping with Singsie. Singie’s 
insisting on putting up sandwiches and the boys 
want us to eat what we hunt.” 

“Mater say you might hunt?” 

“We-ell! Said we could go hunting,—if we 
didn’t take along anything to shoot with. The 
bovs’ Motherlie said that, too. Ladies are so 

j 1 

scary! But that’s all right!” gallantly. “We can 
use sticks for frogs and set downfalls for rabbits. 
And Karl’s got an old Confederate rifle,—just to 
carry. It doesn’t go off any more; but we had to 

8s 


86 


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have a gun to carry, ’cause Herbert'd told some fel¬ 
lers we were going hunting. And they’d see—” 

“Oh, of course. Reckon you’d better let Singsie 
give you a few sandwiches anyway, hon. Might 
get hungry on the road,” Berne suggested tactfully. 

“Oh, she will, if she’s set out to,” Pete laughed. 
“And I told Karl, ‘Never refuse eats!’ That’s my 
motto. Here they come, now.” 

They came in procession; two eager, wiry, good- 
looking boys from Gertrude Plantation and two lit¬ 
tle negroes,—a shiny, chubby one ironically called 
Shoestring and a shy, one-armed lad named Presi¬ 
dent, with a crescent smile in a night-black face. 

They carried staves, sacks and the antique rifle, 
and Shoestring had a “boat” of lard, already drip¬ 
ping, to cook with. Herbert bore, unwillingly, 
Singsie’s donation of sandwiches, a concession to the 
fussiness of women. 

Around them wTirled a kaleidoscope of dogs; 
every boy had one, good or nondescript. Peter 
would have taken two; but poor Gamin, the terrier, 
had to be tied because he was a shepherd of chick¬ 
ens and must not learn to hunt. 

“Shame not to take Gamin!” Peter sympathized 
with a distant whimper. “Isn’t Shoestring’s dog a 
wonder, Sis? He’s a rabbit-hound.” 

Rabbit chasing is the ruin of the hunting dogs; 
but Berne tried not to laugh. 

“Yas’m,” said Shoestring proudly. “Only las’ 
week he jumped a buzzard. He sho’ did. Passes 


PETER GOES HUNTING 


87 


me what dat dog kin do. He sho’ly jumped a 
buzzard. Old buzzard was sort o’ asleep. He 
scurcely knowed what hit him.” 

“What’s the breed? Tve never seen quite—” 

“Mist’ Jonas say he’s a pure— What’s dat yo’ 
Paw say, Karl?” 

“Said he was a pure diversified mongrel,” said 
Karl admiringly. “Daddy named him Melting 
Pot. But we don’t care for that; we rather Ter¬ 
ror. Growl, Terror! Show your teeth!” 

Terror obligingly murmured and smiled; and the 
hunting party started. 

Beetee came to the door, looked wistfully after 
them. 

Seeing her, Shoestring strutted. “Go on in, gal. 
Go on in,” he ordered grandly. “Dis hyere’s a 
thoroughly he-male party. Pass in de house, Miss 
Lady. Pass on back in de house.” 

“Who you talkin’ to, boy?” Beetee jeered after 
him. “Deliver yo’se’f to yo’ equals. You can't 
talk high enough fo’ me to git de sound o’ yo’ voice.'’ 

Berne was glad of the interlude of laughter. 
Now she stood in the waving shadow of the moss- 
draped live-oak, leaned against the tree, pressed 
against it as if to get in contact with its quiet 
strength. 

The dread of an uncomfortable interview with 
her father, now became inevitable, of the finesse 
that would be necessary, stirred like a dark curtain 
back of her thoughts. But in the foreground of her 


88 


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mind she was thinking, “He used to be full of fire, 
when he was little. Full of power. I remember. 
It must be there still, somewhere. Poor Da!” 

The sudden moisture in her eyes astonished her. 
She did not realize how much she had wanted Dan 
Barde, if ever he came back to Louisiana, to come 
back forceful, vibrant, a wise and sturdy friend for 
her. So she had dreamed him. Now she could 
not help contrasting his hand-clasp with the firmer 
one of Martin Pinckney; she hated to make that 
contrast. 

“The boy’s ill!” she rebuked herself angrily. 
“And he won the Croix de Guerre. Isn’t that 
proof enough?” But somehow it was not. 

“Thrilling news, Mater!” she called to her 
mother in the upper window, glad to have some¬ 
thing gossipy to tell her. “Dan Barde had a faint 
spell up the road. I found him and—” 

“Oh, come up and tell me about it, dear!” 

On her way to a good mother-and-daughter chat¬ 
ter, rare enough between these two who lived in dif¬ 
ferent worlds, her father detained Berne, a hand on 
her arm. 

“Soon, Commodore. Mater’s waiting.” 

“Well, my dear, when you can! I want a long 
talk. If you will manage—” 

“Yes; soon. Better lie down in the hammock a 
little. You look ‘in ,’—dear Commodore! Don’t 
worry.” 


PETER GOES HUNTING 89 

What had happened, she wondered; but suspected 
the Prowler’s visit. 

Mrs. La Grande’s lavender boudoir, delicate and 
feminine as its occupant, curtained by vines and 
laces and gently pervaded by soft fragrances, 
seemed restful now. 

But the Mater herself was quick with curiosity 

Berne drove herself to talk as entertainingly as 
she could; beginning, of course, with her discovery 
of Dan ill in the woods, omitting the episode of the 
Prowler. 

“Well you have had a romantic morning,” her 
mother applauded. “Rescuing Dan and, then, an 
impromptu tete-a-tete with Martin. Rather a joke 
on you, miss; isn’t it? You flee from drawing¬ 
rooms and meet swains on the highways. Two at 
once!” 

“Three, if you like. Odrasse rode out with me.” 

“Oh, he! Is Dan as good-looking as they say? 
His father was superb. I never liked hi»s mother; 
but she is pretty. Or was.” 

“Dan’s good-looking.” 

“Don’t stress the old friendship, the sisterly pose, 
too hard.” Mrs. La Grande laughed. 

“Why not?” Berne stiffened; then she relaxed, 
smiled, determined not to be on the defensive. 
Mater wa»s as she was; what good fighting about it? 

“I apologized to Mr. Pinckney for being ungra¬ 
cious to him last night,” she said, hoping to please 


90 


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her. “Told him you thought I’d been and that I 
was sorry.” 

“Camille Berenicia! You didn’t!” an angry 
light in her eyes. “What taste,—to talk about 
me!” 

“Why, Mater dear, I didn’t do that!” 

Injured silence. 

“I thought you’d be pleased,” said poor Berne. 

“Pleased? To have you tell Martin Pinckney 
what I said to you? How sweet!” 

Berne knew that this was not the true reason for 
her mother’s chagrin. So, Berne-like, tshe said so. 

“Mater, you know I didn’t tell anything that was 
out of taste. What is the real trouble?” 

“You’ll never learn not to be a little fool—” 

“Foolish to apologize if I w T as rude?” 

Mrs. La Grande was exasperated. “Can’t you 
make amends without saying so? A thousand 
ways!” 

“No. I’m afraid not.” Berne sighed. “I 
don’t know any way but to be sorry and say so and 
try to look out next time. I’m not a natural social 
adept like you and Lanny, Mater dear.” Her 
mother ismiled, slightly placated, deciding to be 
pleasant. “Pm just a farmer, you know.” 

“Well! You’re pretty this morning. Don’t neg¬ 
lect to keep your hat on in this weather. ’Ware 
freckles! Speaking of Landry, my dear, do keep 
that impossible little country girl from getting silly 
about him.” 


PETER GOES HUNTING 


9i 


“Elodi? ‘Impossible’? Why, she’s as well- 
bred and well-read as—” 

Matter of taste. Just don’t ask her to come 
when Landry’s here. We won’t discuss it, please. 
Oh! I m not afraid of anything serious, of course. 
But Lan has temperament.” She did not say “my 
temperament,” but her eyes said it for her. She 
shrugged. “And just now, when Helen Jeffrey is 
encouraging him again—” 

“Is she? I’ll not ask Elodi to call when he’s 
here.” 

“Please don’t. And, Camille Berenicia! Pray 
don’t consider it your duty to tell Elodi or Landry 
what I’ve just said.” 

“Mater!” 

Berne opened her eyes wide, caught her lip in 
her teeth. Then, after a still moment, she spoke 
placidly, “I’m going to Petite Anse this afternoon. 
They’re sending the car for me.” 

“Fine! I’m glad to see—” 

“Oh! It’s business, dear.” 

“Of course,” with a little sigh. “Well, wear 
something. Don’t go in overalls.” 

“Will you choose the dress, Mater? I must go 
downstairs now. Loafed enough. Have to talk 
plantation with the Commodore.” 

“Don’t wear him out. Look out! Don’t rub 
off the powder. It’s so hot!” as Berne kissed her. 

As she went downstairs, Berne saw, through the 
rear door-window, a flock of grackles, gathering 


92 


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their scattered clans, tuning up their little-violin 
voices, preening the half-hidden iridescence that 
the sunlight betrayed. 

She lost her cares for that moment, watching the 
birds. “They always seem to lend me wings,” she 
said to herself. “After all, there’s nothing to be 
down about,—if the crop’s good. And the mar¬ 
ket.” She moved with lighter step. 

Mr. La Grande called out, “How about the boat 
on the bayou, Flame? I can talk and rest, too, 
there. Just off our wharf. Under the pecan 
tree.” 

Berne waved assent, regarding her father as if 
she were his mother, went first to give orders to 
Uncle Hope. 

That grizzled veteran was being scolded by 
Singsie. 

“Be quiet, you!” she was saying. “You got to 
come pesterin’, too. Ain’t dat hard? Gwine git 
Missy all upsot. Dat’s all what’s missin’ yet! 
Always makin’ traca.” 

“I isn’t makin’ no trouble, at all. Woman, as de 
old folks’ proverb say’, ‘Mosquito lose’ his time 
when he try to sting de alligator.’ Yo’ words ain't 
havin’ no effect on me.—Howdy, Missy! Missy,”— 
ignoring Singsie’s menacing eye,—“howcome yo’ 
Paw is tryin’ to swap de good south corner of 
Savane Salee fo’ dat worthless swamp on Guidry 
plantation?” 

“You’re sure, Uncle Hope?” 


PETER GOES HUNTING 


93 


“Yas m. Mist’ Guidry’s man, Jim, he told me 
so—on nigger gin. As de old folks’ proverb say’, 
‘Gin opens de mouth and lets de truth out.’ ” 

“I’ll ask my father.” 

“Looky how you done bothered Missy! She 
white a,s a egg,” said Singsie reproachfully. 

“Mighty sorry! Sho’ is.” He scratched his 
head, troubled. “But, as de old folks’ proverb 
say’, ‘Take-care’s worth mo’ dan askin’-pardon.’ I 
is just takin’ care o’ our good meadowland—” 

Berne followed her father to the old blue boat 
tied beneath the pecan-tree, on the winding bayou 
far back of the house. 

A tangle of wild-wistaria in bloom fringed the 
shrubbery behind him. The boat moved gently in 
the fleshy emerald leaves of hyacinth plants. On 
the high bluff across Vermilion’s water,—tawny- 
blue in the shade, red-under-silver in the sun, mir¬ 
roring white clouds and green foliage,—the white 
goats and white guinea-hens of a neighboring plan¬ 
tation were loafing under dense trees. 

Berne drank in the beauty. 

“We must never lose it!” she said to herself, the 
slogan ishe repeated a dozen times a day. 

“Have you had luncheon, Flame? We missed 
you.” 

“Begged a bite down at the ferry. Commodore, 
it would be a joke if you began to be afraid of me. 
I’d think I’d grown up ugly, like the Hoodoo lady 
said I was going to.” 


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“Why,—child! I suppose all parents get to fear 
children’s judgments a little. Especially when—” 
“What’s the first thing on your mind, Father? 
I’ll be an indulgent daughter.” She tried to slacken 
the tension. 

“Flame, dear, that man—” 

“The Prowler, Beetee calls him—” 

“Of course, you understand by now that I’ve had 
dealings with him. I did not intend to keep you in 
the dark long. Flame, do you remember the stories 
I used to tell you and Lan and Daniel Barde, when 
you were little things,—about the Pi. r ates of the 
Prairies?” 

“Why, what on earth—” 

“Never mind. Answer me. Do you?” 

“Of course. About the terrible cattle bandits. 
And Da would say he wished they were here now, 
so he could join the Vigilantes and ‘go for ’em.’ 
But, Commodore,—” 

“You think I'm changing the subject. I’m not. 
Tell me what you remember of those old tales.” 

Berne, amazed at him and wondering where the 
connection could be,—though she was accustomed to 
having her father put things in his way that was lit¬ 
erary, dramatic,—dutifully recalled the story that 
had thrilled her childhood: How in the old Arca¬ 
dian Acadian days when Canadian, French and 
Louisiana families lived in idyllic luxury under the 
chinaberry trees on the lies and ilots and flower- 
carpeted savanes of the Southwest Parishes,—by 


PETER GOES HUNTING 


95 


day, the women singing at their looms, the men hal¬ 
loing to their prosperous herds on the fertile prai¬ 
ries, the darkeys happy at their labors in house or 
held, the fishermen and trappers making the bayou a 
ribbon of good-fellowship and liveliness; by night, 
ladies and swains riding out to the ball, under the 
starry skies,—how, then, there came, from dark 
cabins and huts and underworld haunts and unmen¬ 
tionable colonies, the Bandits of the Plains. How, 
like a little cloud growing into a hurricane, their evil 
deeds had grown. How judges, juries and lawyers 
had first condoned peccadilloes, then become feeble 
against crimes. How bribery and intimidation and 
every weakness and fear had rendered immunity, un¬ 
til the bandits had ridden and stolen and murdered 
and burned unscathed, waxing rich and corrupting 
youths of good families,—sometimes of the best,— 
until some of them became fascinating figures of 
horror, graceful reprobates. “Strutting in the 
marsh-thickets like purple gallinules,” Berne sand. 
How, then, had arisen the gallant Vigilantes, the 
gentlemen’s army of righteousness, who had driven 
away the army of crime,—low and hideous or high 
and dashing, chiefs and gangs,—and, through dan¬ 
ger and many sorrows, had cleared the islands and 
plains of the five parishes. 

“And the prairie bandits often buried their loot, 
you remember, Flame, in caches in the Indian 
mounds and by the marshes, where, more than 
once,—the records tell us,—in burying their own, 


96 


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they found old treasure buried years before by the 
Baratarian pirates.” 

“Commodore!” Berne gasped. “You’re not— 
you can’t be—looking for buried treasure!” 

She felt almost hysterical, held her nerves with 
both hands. This would be too ridiculous to be 
borne. That money the plantation sorely needed, 
—he couldn’t be wasting it on a treasure hunt; like 
a novel-reading urchin! 

“Wait, Flame! Listen! Don’t assume— What 
is it?” 

She was hearkening, held up a hand for silence. 

“Some one is there. I heard some one move in 
the bushes,” she whispered. 

“Can’t be, dear. Perhaps a squirrel. Or a fish 
leaped.” 

After a moment, Berne said, “Let me look. I’m 
sure I heard—” 

She found no one, but returned to the boat still 
not satisfied. 

She was right. The youth, Borel, had come to 
lie Imaginaire to beg 'leniency for his part of the 
morning’s trouble. Barefooted, he had been prowl¬ 
ing about the bayou’s edge, getting up courage, had 
gradually approached these two in the boat, had 
lingered unobserved and listened. At Berne’s first 
gesture of suspicion, he had swung his lithe body 
noiselessly into a tree. 

He was in for it now. He had to be still—and to 
hear! 


PETER GOES HUNTING 


97 


“Before you judge, child, let me tell you one more 
old tale,” her father said, almost pleading. 

Berne clasped her hands about her knees as if 
with a physical effort to hold herself together, 
pressed her lips into the line people called masculine, 
lifted her quiet, wide eyes to his, nodded. 

“My uncle, Marcel Narcisse La Grande, my 
father’s unmarried older and only brother—” 

“Father dear,” Berne interrupted huskily; she 
could stand it no longer. “I’m not judging. I’ll 
promise not to form an opinion, if I can help it. 
But—just to relieve my suspense, if it’s going to be 
a long tale—won’t you tell me, please: Are you 
looking for treasure?” 

Mr. La Grande’s dark face lighted. The man in 
the tree held his breath, as, from an inner pocket, 
Berne’s father drew a small volume of poems and, 
through a slit in the tufted cover, extracted a folded 
and discolored paper. 

Oh! It was fantastic! She knew she must 
laugh soon; she must. But she kept her still eyes 
gravely upon him, as he whispered, tapping the pa¬ 
per with the stem of his pipe, “Not hunting treasure, 
daughter mine. I think—I’ve found it.” 

“Berne! Sis! Sis!” Peter’s voice called. 
“Where are you ( ? Singsie said—” 

They looked up, saw Peter approaching. Then 
Berne got the chance to laugh that she needed. 

Peter was coming slowly, a slow dog trailing be¬ 
hind him. The airedale was caked with bayou mud 


98 


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and hated himself accordingly. Peter was a model 
for a fountain, wet and dripping; at every step 
spouts of water squirted upward from the tops of 
the high red boots. But his face was beaming. 

“Why don’t you empty the boots?” cried Berne, 
running towards him. “How did you get so wet?” 

“No use. I’m so wet I’d fill ’em right up again. 
I got turned over in the bayou. Oh, only at the 
edge ! We had a fine hunt and cooked our game—” 

“Cooked what?” 

“Why, Shoestring got a frog and we cooked his 
legs, and Pres had a bird—” 

“What kind of bird? How did you get him?” 

“I dunno what kind. Pres got him two or three 
days ago and saved him up. We brought him with 
us in a sack.” 

“Had the bird been kept on ice?” his father 
asked. 

“Oh, no! But he was all right, sir; tasted fine.” 

“How did you cook the bird? In what? Did 
you skin the frog’s legs?” Berne asked anxiously. 

“No’m. Ought you to skin ’em? Well, they 
tasted all right. Cooked’em in the lard. Oh! I 
know what you mean; we did forget to bring a skil¬ 
let. But we found an old five-gallon syrup-tin in the 
swamp. It wasn’t much rusty and we washed it 
good,—I mean well ,—in the swamp water. We 
just fried ’em together,—the frog and the bird. 
Shoestring certainly can cook! And Karl divided 
everything equally. It was great!” 


PETER GOES HUNTING 


99 


k ‘Do you feel all right, son?” 

‘‘Fine, sir. 'Course! Only sort of hungry. 
Yes’ m, Sis. I ll go take oh my wet things, right 
off. But first, I want to show you what I found in 
our swamp. Looky here !” 

He dug into his soggy pocket, extended his grimy 
palm. There lay a round black disk. 

“Is it money?” Pete asked. 

Mr. La Grande scraped its muddy surface with 
his knife. 

He looked transfigured, as, without a word, he 
handed to his daughter an old American gold-piece 
that had been coined in 1854. 

“Is it money?” Pete repeated. “I said it was. 
Herbert said, ‘No.’ Thinks he knows so much! 
Say! He said Brother Landry was in Cureville all 
this morning. I told him he’d gone to the city. 
And, Sis! May I go with Karl and Uncle Bra- 
zile and Alligator-man tomorrow, ’way out in the 
woods? They promised to take us. We want to 
play pirates. Brazile knows some bully places for 
burying treasure,—” His voice trailed off as he 
went toward the house. 

“In our swamp!” said his father, regarding the 
coin. 



CHAPTER VIII 


MARCEL NARCISSE AND HIS SHADOW 

B OREL had made his escape during the inter¬ 
lude of Peter’s return. 

He chuckled at the luck that had given 
him this valuable information and swore at the 
Prowler for having deceived him. 

“Come sit at my gallery tellin’ me lies! He 
make like he intend to grab him some money sellin’ 
swamp land to Yankees for plantations. Tresor; 
hien? Brigands; eh-he? Borel, mon fils, you goin’ 
find yo’se’f pretty rich!” He hurried away to 
blackmail his employer, the Prowler. 

Berne’s father in the blue boat, the consciousness 
of the old coin in his hand making a hectic fleck in 
each sallow cheek, went on with his story. 

“My uncle,—your granduncle,—Marcel Nar- 
cisse, was a youth of great promise and astonishing 
beauty. My father was a boy,—about twelve, I 
think,—when my Uncle Marcel died; but I’ve often 
heard your grandfather speak of this older brother 
with the feeling we keep for the idolatries of child¬ 
hood. He was by all accounts a romantic figure. 
Men clustered about him, and women,—why, before 
he was nineteen—but that’s not material now. 


ioo 


MARCEL NARCISSE AND HIS SHADOW 


101 


“He had an adoring comrade, a sort of ‘faithful 
Achates,’—an uncle of Mme. Guidry, greatuncle of 
our Odrasse. People called them Marcel and 
Ombre de Marcel. Marcel and his shadow ! How 
true in the end!” He paused. 

“These youngsters,—for neither lad had really 
reached manhood,—fell into dangerous pastimes. 
For sheer spice of adventure, probably, they became 
intimate with the Laconture gang of bandits. The 
boys never stole, of course; but the banditti offered 
many other wild escapades. Soon they found them¬ 
selves entangled, the conscious-stricken recipients of 
intolerable secrets. 

“Finally Ombre, as they called him, in debt to 
these men for gambling and for graver follies, was 
trapped into participation in a raid. That gave the 
rascals complete hold upon him. He did not dare 
confess even to Marcel. 

“The Vigilantes were just organizing. They 
naturally expected that these adventurous youths of 
good family would join them in driving out brigands. 
Many eyes, already suspicious of them, were watch¬ 
ing to see what they’d do. 

“Just then a hunted bandit, to whom he was in 
debt, came to Ombre, threatened the poor lad with 
exposure, forced him to take charge of a case of 
stolen goods. Money and jewels, largely. Ombre 
concealed it in his home. Next day the bandit was 
arrested, and, according to Vigilante code, beaten 
and banished. He went to Texas but sent threats 


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to Ombre f ordering him to keep the loot safe for 
him. 

Imagine poor Ombre*s sensation when he opened 
the box and found the contents had all been stolen 
from Marcel’s father,—my grandfather! 

“Of course, his first thought was to return the 
property; but how could he do so without disgracing 
his family by betraying his nefarious connection? 
And he knew that even if he found a way, others 
would betray him in revenge. He was already 
being forced to pay tribute, to send money to Texas. 

“The distracted boy buried the valuables on the 
borders between our land and theirs, made a clear 
map of its location and enclosed it in a wild letter to 
Marcel. He confessed everything but begged his 
friend to tell the world that he, Ombre, had been 
disappointed in love. For he meant to shoot him¬ 
self, to be dead when Marcel should receive the 
letter. He asked his friend to be discreet, to ‘dis¬ 
cover’ the treasure at the proper time. 

“He entrusted his letter to another young fellow, 
bade him deliver it to Marcel next day. 

“Then sentiment, always the peril of us roman¬ 
tics,’’—Mr. La Grande smiled,—“spoiled his plan. 
He gave himself the melancholy pleasure of a last 
day on the water with his friend. He and Marcel 
went out on Vermilion Bay for one of the long, 
lonely sails they so enjoyed together. A sudden 
fierce storm arose. Both boys, our Uncle Marcel 
Narcisse and his Shadow, were drowned. 


MARCEL NARCISSE AND HIS SHADOW 103 


“The lad who had Ombre's papers for Marcel 
knew enough of the boys’ wild conduct to feel 
pretty sure that the contents were better left un¬ 
known to their families. He had too much honor 
to read the papers,—the seals were unbroken to 
this year. Yet he was afraid they might be de¬ 
manded of him by some one and did not dare 
destroy them. He hid them away. 

“When they were found and read—” 

“How? When? By whom, Commodore?” 

“Just a minute! So, in this place, cherie, is the 
end of all our cares. Somewhere on this place. 
A miracle!” 

“Dear father—who told you this story?” 

“You don’t believe in it,—even with this in my 
hand?” 

“O Commodore, of course we know that the 
bandits buried treasure-cases, just as the pirates 
and Lafitte’s men used to do, and that these have 
sometimes been found. Even old coins of Lafitte’s 
men have, for that matter. Odrasse himself has 
a Spanish doubloon and an antique American piece.” 

“Well, then—” 

“But, darling!" Then she controlled herself. 
“Mind telling me how you found out all about it 
and what you’ve done, Commodore?” 

The Prowler, he told her, a stray laborer, rather 
better educated than most, a floater, had drifted 
into the parish. 

“To scout for herons?” interrupted Berne. 


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By no means, her father assured her. He had 
been employed in tearing down an old homestead, 
one of the old frame houses with front facade of 
brick and plaster. 

Buried in the bricks, he had found these ancient 
papers, Ombre’s tragic letter and the map. There 
they lay where the lad to whom they had been en¬ 
trusted had hidden them,—as his faded notation 
on the wrapper showed,—in the walls of his room, 
on the day he decided to join Beauregard’s army. 

He never reached home alive. 

“The letter was probably in French?” Berne 
asked. 

“How keen you are, child!” Yes; in French, 
and, as she supposed, Prowler could not read the 
papers. But he could read the name, La Grande, 
and Ombre’s name and knew enough about the 
neighbourhood to be familiar with them and to 
recognize certain landmarks on the map. He took 
his “find” to New Orleans to be translated by a 
Creole crony, then brought the papers to her father. 

“You bought these papers?” 

“The letter. The map he will not sell; and—ah! 
—insists on sharing somewhat in what we find. 
My dear, it is a large amount. An actual treasure. 
And there is a passage in the letter which seems to 
indicate,—but this, I fear, you will never believe,— 
that in the place where Ombre buried the loot, some 
of the Baratarians already— Well! Even if not!” 

“Of course, they would both really belong to us, 


MARCEL NARCISSE AND HIS SHADOW 105 


—a letter to Great-uncle Marcel and a map about 
buried loot, stolen from us, treasure on our land— ” 
Berne began. 

“No way to make him give up the map, without, 
—ah!—great publicity. He has it well concealed. 
And people would think me absurd,—even you did, 
my dear!—until I succeed. Secrecy is so necessary. 
What a stampede into the swamp if it ever were 
rumored! I was not imposed upon. I made him 
give me a copy of the map; not complete in detail, 
to be sure. But I knew that matters little; it can 
no longer be definite. With the frequent hurricanes 
and floods on our coast, contours change and slip. 
And in all these years! It takes time to locate the 
spot.” 

“You are financing the—adventure?” 

“Oh, of course. Had to. He had to hire a 
surveyor who could be trusted,—and not inquire 
too far,—and other assistants. And, naturally, I 
had to supply this man’s needs and buy him a good 
boat and—materials. It has taken longer than we 
thought. And he is not economical.” He sighed. 
“But he is cautious. And we are near the end.” 

“Did you sell—land, dear? I heard—” 

“Only a little piece and exchanged a little piece.” 

“Of South Field and of, of—Savane Salee, 
Commodore?” There was a break in the cool 
young voice. 

“Just a strip, my dear. I needed some of the 
Guidry woods—” 


io6 


COME HOME 


“My good fertile field and meadow land!” 

“But, child, I had to restore our old boundaries. 
He thinks—” 

Berne rose to her feet, flaming. 

“Father! You've bought the Guidry part of our 
heronry! Turned that man loose in it! That man 
is hunting plumes!” 

“No. No. No. Listen, dear! I know what 
happened this morning. Too bad! But you’re 
wrong. He swears he’ll not shoot a bird again. 
I assure you, my dear, it’s not the heronry he wants 
in that strip. It’s the Pool of the Moon,” he 
whispered. 

“But he did include the Guidry side of the 
heronry? And that is some distance from the Pool 
of the Moon. Oh! Odrasse will be so sorry his 
father sold it! I'll watch.” 

“No! daughter. I cannot have the man inter¬ 
fered with. You must not.” 

“I’ll watch,” said Berne, her chin firm. “Com¬ 
modore, I’ll not interfere with your plans, though 
I—well! But I’ll watch those birds. So tell him.” 

Mr. La Grande was troubled. 

“Well, not apparently , dear. Please! And no 
need to tell Ned,—about this morning.” 

“Why don’t you speak to Mr. Ned or Judge 
Julien Le Boeuf, dear, about the whole thing? 
They’d never tell and—” 

“You think my own judgment not sufficient, 
daughter?” There were tears in his eyes, the hurt 


MARCEL NARCISSE AND HIS SHADOW 


107 


of his half-acknowledged inefficiency; the hope and 
buoyancy had gone out of his voice. 

“Daddy dear!” Berne said remorsefully, sitting 
beside him, her arm about his shoulders. “Of 
course, you know what to do. I’m horrid to kill 
the fires. Look up yonder in the window!” Peter 
stood there in his underclothes, eating corn-bread 
and molasses. “He wants to go to Agricultural 
College. He wants to be a planter. It’s going to 
be his lie Imaginaire. He’s growing up to love it. 
We’ll save it for him; won’t we,—you and I?” 

“O Si-is!” Peter chanted. “Mater says better 
come get ready, if your going to Petite Anse. 
What time’s the car comingf Beetee’s got your 
bath all ready. Mater’s got your dress out.” 

No one seeing Berne going in the car to Petite 
Anse shortly after could have doubted the Mater’s 
superior ability to bring out her daughter’s attrac¬ 
tions. The cool frock of pale-green silk-muslin 
emphasized the ivory pallor of her throat and arms; 
the gorgeous oriflamme of her hair was softened 
forward, waving about her face, making a frame 
for its delicate strength; her steady, ruddy-gold- 
brown eyes were deepened under the tender shadows 
of a lacey hat. 

“Gee! You look pretty, Sis!” Pete had vouch¬ 
safed as he kissed her good-by. “If you give me 
a spoon I’ll eat you.” 

“You’ve eaten enough strange creatures for one 
day, sir,” Berne replied. “But I do feel a very fine 


io8 


COME HOME 


lady.” Then, a little wistfully, “Like me better 
dolled up, Peterkin?” 

He wrinkled his forehead in masculine dilemma 
between the truthful and the tactful. “No-o,” he 
said at last. “Straight goods, I don’t. It’s awful 
pretty. But I kind o’ like you better just plain.” 

Berne glowed at him and Peter sighed in relief. 
You never could tell about ladies; he decided 
“straight goods” was best. 

When Berne reached the beautiful “island” of 
Petite Anse, set so high in the broad, flat, misty- 
blue prairies and fields and coastal marshes that, 
from its terraced slopes, one seemed to be standing 
on a star surveying a stretch of evening firmament, 
she left the car at the great gate. She wanted the 
beauty of the walk through the myrtle-flanked path, 
under the tremendous arms of ancient oaks that 
waved moss-banners at her approach, through whis¬ 
pering dark tents of the bamboo grove, by many- 
flowered gardens and then to the vine-covered home 
on the top of terrace-steps, where giant trees 
stood as guardian pages. 

She loved to look over the swamp lake where the 
herons lived, a few now, like great flowers, blue and 
white, blooming on the trees. 

She loved the blue haze, as blue as sapphire, that 
hung over the forest reaches of the game preserve, 
the blue pools like living enamel set with brilliant 
water-fowl, and the clouds of little land birds that 
whirled above this paradise. 


MARCEL NARCISSE AND HIS SHADOW 109 


But most of all today, she regarded the planta¬ 
tion itself,—its well-kept and well-planted arpents, 
the staple and expected crops and the exotic gaiety 
of its up-pushing pepper-fields, darkly shining orange 
groves, brilliant orchards of pomegranates and 
prospering nurseries of avocados. 

She delighted in the humming of its bees and 
tiniest jeweled birds in the multitudes of roses, and, 
behind this murmur, like the sea behind the rain, 
the distant voices of hundreds of hens and their 
broodlings. 

Would lie Imaginaire ever fulfil itself like this? 
This was what Louisiana meant 1 Her beauty in 
fruitage. 

In the doorway, under the purple and gold canopy 
of the bignonia vines, Dan Barde was waiting for 
her. 

He greeted her with the naturalness she liked. 

“ ’Lo, Flame!” he said. “I died and woke up in 
Heaven. Isn’t this—” he had no words. 

“Oh, yes ! It’s the best we do. Feeling better ?” 

“Prime. Pinckney’s been looking after me like 
a mother, and now that the family’s home,—but 
you know ’em! Wait a minute, Flame; will you? 
Let’s get acquainted a little bit before you- go 
in.” 

They sat on the settee under the vines. 

“I saw you coming and ‘laid’ for you,” said Dan. 
“You looked like a water-lily coming up the walk, 
all green-and-white. Pretty, Flame!” He was 


1 10 


COME HOME 


talking as he used to talk before the War, had for¬ 
gotten about himself. 

“Thanks, Da. I strive to please today. It’s 
the frock and hat.” 

“Let me look at you. Do you know, the only 
thing I remember that hasn’t changed, that’s just 
as I remember it, is—” 

“Hair!” Berne said. “My panache f like Henry 
of Navarre. Only his was white.” 

“No’m. I wasn’t going to say that. It has 
changed, from red to glorious.” 

“Must we check up my points?” 

“Yes’m. Polite to let me finish. It’s your 
hands, Flame. Honestly, I’ve seen them all my 
life. And felt them.” 

He extended his and, simply* Berne put her hands 
into them; a dart of color flew into her cheeks. 

“Yes, Flame. Just like that.” He nodded 
gravely. “Firm and soft and light and vibrant. 
Isn’t it queer I remembered?” 

Berne had no answer at first, then she said, “May¬ 
be it’s because we used to walk hand in hand when 
we were little. Except when I was scratching and 
throwing. Did you remember that about them, 
too ?” 

“What did you remember about me? Come, 
now,—anything ?” 

“Everything.” 

He bowed, touched. 

“But most?” 


MARCEL NARCISSE AND HIS SHADOW in 


“I’ll tell you, then. The power of you. The 
vigor.” 

A silence fell. Then, slowly, the old languor in 
his voice, he said, “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten that 
myself.” 

“Let’s remember it, Da.” She gripped the hands 
she held. 

“Together, Flame? I’ll—try,” but doubtfully. 

She rose to enter the house. 

“Show me where you live,” he said as he followed. 
“Can we see lie Imaginaire from here? That 
direction?” 

“No. There. But it’s far. You can’t see it. 
In that direction!” 

“Over there, under that shadow?” 

Berne’s heart had been flying fast and happily; 
now it fell like a hurt bird. 

“Yes,” she said to Dan. “Under the shadow.” 
And, to herself, she added, “Under the Shadow, 
today, of Marcel Narcisse.” 


i 


CHAPTER IX 


NESTS 

W HILE Berne and Daniel were crossing the 
living-room and rounding the long 
“gallery,” she could not help hearing a 
voice out there, Mme. Boutin’s, saying, “Oh, Oui, 
my friends! Landry La Grande has become very 
epris with my little niece, Elodi Huval. Again 
this morning, he must pass to her house in Cure- 
ville, and miss his train to the city. I see them 
picking Japan plum’,—not quite ripe ones; but 
youth and romance can digest everything.” She 
jingled. “Eh? I have told her, ‘Hold on tight 
that small he*ad with the both hands. Lie is like 
summer lightning, that young man. Maybe the 
sky blaze’ up, but he strikes nothing. Pouf! All 
gone!’ I very regret, me, that that nice boy, 
Odrasse— Ah! Void Camille Berenicia!” 

“I’ve sent for your duds, Berne. You’re going 
to stay over night. Oh, yes; you are! All ar¬ 
ranged by telephone with your Mater,” said her 
hostess, a little lady of soft curves and dimples, 
with a flying laugh after each phrase. “Sorry the 

girls are away. But I’ve got Mme. Boutin and 

112 


NESTS 


113 


Ellen and Dan to play with you,—and Martin, that 
hardy perennial. Is that good, Martin?” She 
laughed teasingly at Pinckney through the smoke 
of her cigarette, curled up in a big fan-backed chair, 
looking, Dan thought, like a pretty incense-burner 
in a shrine-niche. But this lady was no mere orna¬ 
ment; her gay graces covered executive ability that 
directed a large menage and many retainers, with 
masterful ease. 

Ellen Droussard moved over on the settee to 
make room for her friend. 

“Relax, child,” her hostess rose and placed a 
cobalt blue pillow back of Berne’s head, so that 
Martin Pinckney could get the best effect of her 
gorgeous hair and fine profile. 

Ellen Droussard grinned and winked at her; Mrs. 
Ned wfinked back unashamed. She was openly 
trying to make this match; thought it would be 
good for them both. Berne’s lack of self-con¬ 
sciousness made her laugh. “That child is about 
as coquettish as a farm tractor,” she said softly to 
Ellen. 

Dan had drawn his chair close to Berne. “Nice 
of you to come visit while I’m here. I may assume 
that much?” 

“Sorry, Da; I’m afraid not.” 

Rather dull of her to be so literal, he thought. 
But Martin Pinckney smiled, he was understanding 
her now. The child was utterly true. 

“I came to see Mr. Ned,” Berne explained. 


ii4 


COME HOME 


“Too bad he’s still away. I need some advice about 
fertilizers.” 

Looking at the picture she made against the blue 
cushion, “Fertilizers!” the men exclaimed in unison 
and exchanged amused glances. 

But Martin was thinking how good it would be 
to release Berne’s wide, still eyes,—let them cry, if 
they wanted to; to make her firm lips soften, curve 
upward. 

“You are quite better, now?” Berne was asking 
Daniel. 

“Oh, yes. Flame,” he added in a lower tone. 
“Please don’t think I’m paying compliments,—but 
I seem to get strength from you, to feel better when 
you’re near. Even on the train—” 

“That’s good. I used to feel so about you when 
we were children. I used to say, ‘Da’ll take up for 
me. It will be all right when Gai-Da comes.’ ” 

“You were going to tell us about your profession; 
is it no?” Mme. Boutin reminded him with frank 
curiosity. People down there feel they have a 
right to know about their neighbors. 

“Accent on the first two syllables,” Daniel said. 
“I profess to be a mining engineer, but—” he 
shrugged. 

“The War came?” Ellen Droussard suggested. 

“It came, to be sure. But it didn’t interrupt any¬ 
thing. I went out to the mines just after my 
graduation, but my mother was horribly lonely in 
New York. So, of course, I came home again.” 


NESTS 


n 5 

“Of course, ’ said Mme. Boutin with secret sig¬ 
nificance. 

“Then I became a consultant. But as it takes 
two to make a consultation, I just played about— 
waiting for the other fellow.” 

They laughed, but an undercurrent made Dan 
feel on the defensive. He wanted to remind these 
people that many of his circle merely played. 

“But you’re very young. You can still work 
yet, ’ Mme. Boutin apologized for him. 

“Heavens! Let the boy rest! He worked 
enough in the War to deserve an indefinite vacation, 
if half we hear is true,” Ellen Droussard said, but 
Dan felt apology in her tact, too. 

Mrs. Ned merrily interposed new topics; under 
the cover of them Berne said to him, “Poor Da! 
It’s horrible to love a thing and not be able to do 
it.” 

Dan blushed. “I—I’m afraid I don’t grieve 
much about it,” his honesty made him say. “I’m 
a drifting—oh, I did like my job, of course! You 
have interesting salt mines here, I’m told. I must 
visit them,—later on.” 

The afternoon was changing into gold and 
saffron. Berne sat erect, listening, restless. 

Her hostess laughed. “Run along, Berenicia. 
You may go into the heronry. The birds are 
coming home for the night, and Berne has to see 
them,” she explained. “Want to go with her, 
Martin? Dan?” 



116 


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Martin did want to, but he saw through Mrs. 
Ned and sacrificed his desire for the fun of de¬ 
feating hers; let Dan and Berne go without him. 

“You’re well enough to come, Da? It’s worth 
while.” 

Then Dan astonished himself. “Of course, I 
am,” he said. 

They crossed the wide lawn toward the heron 
lake. 

This had once been a little marsh tangle, where 
for many years no herons lived. For the plume- 
hunters, long unrestrained, had exterminated them 
from their South Coast homes, slaughtered them to 
trim hats with, Berne told Dan, slaughtered and 
tortured and starved these beautiful beings “to 
make women look pretty. Such women! I’d 
rather see horns growing on their heads,” she 
flashed, “than aigrettes!” 

This was the first fire of the old Flame he had 
seen, Dan thought. 

“But Mr. Ned patiently tempted the herons back 
to Petite Anse, made this home for them, taught 
them confidence. And now we have good laws that 
try to protect our birds. I’m starting a heronry, 
too,—Odrasse Guidry and I,—on the borders of 
our lands.” She stopped with a pang, remembered 
it was no longer on Odrasse’s father’s land. Poor 
Odrasse would be so hurt! “We haven’t as many 
birds as these, of course. But we’re doing our 
best to follow Mr. Ned.” 


NESTS 


117 

“Our host is a great man. I’m beginning to 
think.” 

“He’s a great gentleman. Nothing is too weak 
for his protection,—not even beauty.” The sudden 
light in her eyes startled him. 

“And our Odrasse Guidry will be like him?” 
Dan remembered the scene on the road in the 
morning. 

“He wants to be. I hope he may.” 

“I hope so, too, then,” gravely. 

“Oh! Not that. What made you think it?” 

“Sure, Flamq?” 

“Certainly.” 

She did not resent his asking; she lived in a land 
of frankness. 

Dan thought, “Why the dickens should I be glad? 
Dog in the manger! I must not flirt with Flame. 
She’s not used to it.” 

“Here we are. I’d better lead you.” She gave 
him her hand. “Silence, now. Very still!” 

Still holding his with the hand he had remem¬ 
bered, she led him over a plank across a marsh-bed 
of Lotus-of-the-Nile. The drops of water hung on 
the lotus-leaves like beads, and around their stalks 
the frogs snored comfortably. 

Where the plank-bridge reached into a thicket 
of small trees at the edge of the swamp-lake, Dan 
gave an involuntary cry. On all sides in the 
branches lay the great nests of twigs,—a bird’s 
neck-length apart,—hundreds of them; and in 


118 


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every nest the great turquoise and aquamarine eggs 
clustered like Aladdin’s jewels. 

Dan had to bend low to avoid hitting the nests, 
as he approached the platform camouflaged by leafy 
branches of the thicket. There they waited, as in 
a nest themselves. 

Somewhere in the low bushes and water-grasses, 
a hidden purple gallinule, as if conscious of his 
concealed glory, laughed a contralto, “La, la, la, 
la, la!” And from the shoreward reeds, an 
epauletted blackbird called out sharp and sweet, 
“Liquidee-ee,” his comment on the evening. 

The little blue herons in their wonderful slaty 
coats, exotic dark blue, flashed with glints of steel 
and garnet, preened themselves on the tips of low 
trees. Some Louisiana-herons that looked like 
stately little gentlemen of the old regime in old- 
fashioned brownish hats and Confederate gray suits 
with white waistcoats and puffy dark cravats, leapt 
up straight in the air, legs dangling for short flights. 
Others nervously craned their flexile necks and 
ruffled their neck feathers, alert, sensing strange 
visitants. Single birds, high in the sky, folded their 
wings and parachuted down to the trees. 

In the open reaches of the pond, many-colored 
wild-ducks glided, splashing down to the water like 
festive hydroplanes. 

Little cap-caps-dorees y the least bitterns, on the 
low growths above the brilliant green circles of the 
water-penny leaves, were still as if, in their golden 


NESTS 


119 


brown and vivid onyx, they were painted there,—as 
indeed they were, their backs glistening under the 
long brushes of the sunset. 

Then high in the cerulean air, they came,—the 
snowy herons,—flotillas and single sails, gathering 
like a fairy fleet, purest white or tinged with evening 
light, sailing, sailing on the blue sky-sea in a lyric, 
measured flight; every dip and rise and turn as 
rhythmic as a song. Nearer and nearer. Dan 
caught his breath with rapture. He could see their 
wispy, curving plumes vibrating with the motion 
and the light. 

By hundreds and thousands the ethereal creatures 
hung above the dark trees, floated over the open 
spaces, glimmered pearl against carmined white 
clouds or white against the sky. 

Then, like an arrow to its mark, each bird dropped 
from the blue, straight to its own nest. 

The bird city was inhabited. The evening was 
filled with the excited voices of home-comers. 

The voices grew quieter and quieter, suddenly 
were hushed. The long light deepened and 
darkened. 

Dan turned an enraptured face. 

“Yes,” Berne dared to whisper. “It is what 
life is for,—to keep nests safe.” 

When they had crossed to shore again and 
stood in the bamboo thicket, Dan asked her to ex¬ 
plain what she said. 

“I meant all nests,—human, too. Isn’t that what 


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it’s all for? Everything. Isn’t that what you 
fought for, Da? Wihat people work for? What 
men and women stay—right—for? To keep the 
nests safe?” 

“Why, what a philosopher, Flame!” 

“Make fun of me if you want to. But, you see, 
the plantations are my alma mater. So my philos¬ 
ophy is bucolic. But isn’t it wonderful to be useful 
like Mr. Ned, even to the birds?” 

“Must be. You’re a tremendously useful mem¬ 
ber of society yourself; aren’t you? My grand¬ 
father says you’re the big chief, a ‘regular feller’ on 
the plantation—” 

She laughed with him at his free translation of 
General Barde. This was like old times. Dan had 
always made her laugh. 

“Commodore—my father’s the boss. But I do 
have to run lie Imaginaire; he’s not very well. 
Don’t let General Barde make you think it’s too 
much for me, though. He is so kind! He’s been 
my champion ever since I was little; and worries 
about me, I’m afraid, though there’s no reason.” 

“Men can’t get used to the idea of a girl’s doing 
work out under the sky, I suppose,” Dan grinned. 
“Indoors, we can bear it. I knew a Connecticut 
farmer who was outraged by a picture ot a French 
peasant lass at the plow. But his own wife is 
fairly parboiled in family-laundry-water. But, you, 
little Flame,—you like such a hard job, Miss 
Superintendent?” 


NESTS 


121 


“When things go well. Don’t you, too, really? 
No fooling!” 

“ ‘No fooling!’ You used to say that. Do I 
like hard work? Can’t answer that. I’m like the 
man who said he didn’t know whether he could play 
the violin or not; he’d never tried.” 

“Why didn’t you ever try?” 

“Never learned how. Brought up trivial. I 
haven’t been out of college many years. And 
mother likes me to tote her around,—and one thing 
happens after another. And the War took time. 
Oh! I do take a spurt at things once in awhile; 
but I’m an idle fellow, I guess, and only work when 
I play.” 

She was silent. 

“The Lady disapproves. Tell me what’s the 
matter with me, little philosopher.” 

“I don’t know, Da. But I know, when I get 
limp, what I think about.” 

“Gosh!” Dan started resentfully. “She con¬ 
siders me limp!” he thought. Then he laughed 
good-humoredly and asked, “What do you think 
about? Do tell me what makes maidens stiff.” 

She returned his laugh but continued seriously. 
“I remember what a Hoodoo woman who lived in 
our woods used to tell us. She said every one had 
a flame within which must be given room to burn. 
Passages of expression, I suppose she meant. Or 
it smolders backward, using a man up, instead of 
turning him into light and power. Some people let 


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it go too far,—don’t control it. It burns them to 
cinders. I might have come to grief like that, if 
I hadn’t—hit you with an oyster shell.” 

“Why, Flame!” 

He reached up and lifted the lock on his fore¬ 
head, smiling. 

“Yes; there it is!” she said. “That scar cured 
me. That very day I began to control my temper. 
I certainly am endowed with one, as Uncle Hope 
says. I was so frightened, Da! It was terrible to 
have hurt you.” 

“You were a dear little thing to have felt it like 
that.—They called you Flame.” 

“But that was because of hair—and temper; not 
for the flame within.” 

“You’ve got it, though,—one can see. That’s 
what I shall mean when I call you Flame. Mme. 
Boutin says it’s verboten now. But mayn’t I,— 
if I promise not to mean hair,—and temper?” 

“I want you to.” 

He was beginning to look tired; one of his sudden 
languors swept over him. She saw it drag the 
humorous twinkle from his eyes. 

“Best go in now,” she began. 

He saw her solicitude. 

“Yes. Oh! I need my flame renewed, I’m 
afraid. It’s quite burned out. All gone. There 
isn’t any more. I must find me some kindling.” 
He laughed. 

The last light fell on Berne’s head, turning it 


NESTS 


123 


suddenly into fire. The golden-ruddy lights glowed 
in her quiet eyes. 

Something leapt in Dan’s heart. Impulsively he 
put out both his hands and held her face between 
them. He bent toward her, then drew quickly back, 
dropped his hands, startled at his own impulse, 
stared at her. 

“Flame!” 

“Let’s go in now,” Berne said. “They’ll be 
waiting.” 

He followed her. The twilight fell. Nature 
and night were taking charge of the nesting. 

General Barde had come and brought a letter for 
his grandson. 

Dan read it under the lamp in the living-room, 
before joining the others on the “gallery.” 

His mother was missing him horribly, it said, in 
spite of many activities. He was to watch his sus¬ 
ceptibility, she warned him; there were dangers in 
the backwoods as well as in the city, and ambitious 
mothers everywhere. Dan must remember his 
promise not to desert her—not for years and years. 
She had loaned him to his country; but no girl must 
get him yet. She’d stuck by him, she reminded him 
playfully,—but he knew it was true and that she 
meant to remind him of it,—amid hordes of suitors. 
Well, then. On guard! 

Daniel laughed indulgently. He knew he was 
not susceptible. That was a pretty pose of his 
mother’s. But her warning had not come at an in- 


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appropriate moment, he confessed to himself. Of 
course, she was right. He must not let this singular 
girl “get to him.” It would never do. 

JVhat would never do? 

He flushed, asking himself the question. He 
realized that suddenly he was avoiding an emotion, 
instead of seeking one as he had been doing for so 
long. 

Was he coming alive at last? 

That was it. He must not confuse his reactions, 
must not exaggerate them. It was good to be 
coming alive, alight. 

A sleepy sound came from the throat of some 
land-bird in his nest, a comfortable, tender, home¬ 
like sound. 

Suddenly Dan felt cold. 

Fie went to the “gallery” and sat there close to 
Flame. 


CHAPTER X 


ELODI AND LANDRY 

L ONG years ago, when a pioneer priest from 
France built a crude church at the fairest 
curve of Bayou Vermilion,—as if to beard 
the wood-gods in their stronghold,—he must have 
learned to found a town through having meditated 
so earnestly upon the charms of the Heavenly City. 

Today’s big red church in Cureville, descendant 
of that one built in the wilds, commands a hamlet 
of spacious homes, spreading broad wings in nests 
of trees and flowers. Their gardens are fruitful. 
The truck-fields overflow. Fishermen sail up the 
bayou delivering newly-taken Gulf fish from their 
boats to one’s ice-chest; fresh-water fish frisk in 
every stream. Never were eggs richer, cream more 
frothy than here. The forests afford game, from 
rabbit to deer and bear. 

Whites and negroes live and work in amity. 

The red church looks down upon perfect hospi¬ 
tality unconscious of itself, upon a cultivation with¬ 
out a pose and homes ruled by the heart. There 
is music in every household; nearly every one can 
dance. What books are read are of the best; two 
languages are spoken. 


125 


126 


COME HOME 


What wonder Elodi Huval was sw r eet? She was 
born and spent her days in the shadow of the old 
church, in the homes of the old town,—all as her 
own to her. 

She had never looked into a face that did not 
smile response. She had never known a soul who 
did not love her. 

Gay as a moth on a summer morning, she had 
had innocent affairs of the heart since she could 
toddle. Though she remembered her fourth birth¬ 
day, she could not recall a time without its little 
lover. But she was almost sex-unconscious still; 
it was romance that intrigued her. She saw herself 
as the heroine of an old novel, besought by many 
cavaliers of whom she was now the capricious tor¬ 
mentor, now the gracious, guiding angel. 

There had been a recurrent motif of Odrasse 
Guidry. She and Odrasse came together and drew 
apart to others, like partners in a. quadrille. 

Landry had always thrilled her imagination when 
he came from the city; but he had seemed many 
years her senior with no relation to herself, until 
the humor took him to attend one of the Saturday- 
night country balls; and there he had seen his sister’s 
little friend in a new aspect. Two boys were fight¬ 
ing about her. She was the belle. Because others 
wanted her favor, Landry selected her and took it. 
He continued to see her because she was so sweet. 
He never gave the lightest thought as to how his 


ELODI AND LANDRY 


127 


attentions would seem to Elodi. Ele liked to play 
with her, so he played. 

When she met Odrasse in the little plaza that 
morning, she had just accompanied Landry to his 
train. She was still thinking about the wayside 
Mexican primrose she had plucked, of how Landry 
had taken it from her hand, held its silky pinkness 
against her cheek under the pink sunshade, smiled 
and put the flower in his coat. 

She was sorry she had teased Odrasse about 
Berne, for she saw that he was really troubled. 

“Don’t be mad to me, Toto,” she said,—this is 
the land of nicknames. “I never wanted to make 
you sorry. I just was trying to make you laugh, 
Toto.” 

He smiled at her. A tease, but she was sweet. 
He wanted to know why she was “down town” in 
the heat of the day. She blushed and told him. 
The blush disturbed Odrasse. He could not 
imagine anything more horrid than that anybody 
should hurt Elodi as Berne was hurting him. 

“Will you go in our boat to the picnic at Caissons’, 
Dodi? I’d be glad.” 

But she wasn’t going to the picnic. Landry was 
to be at Imaginaire over that Saturday; she had 
promised to be home if he stopped in Cureville on 
the way. 

“Wish I had Landry’s ways,” Odrasse ventured 
a hint. “Maybe all the ladies would like me, too. 


128 


COME HOME 


They say, in the city, he’s just like you, Dodi. Flits 
from flower to flower.” 

He thought he had been astute; he could see that 
she lost color for a moment. 

But, naturally, thought Elodi, as she went home, 
Landry would be popular in the city. That made 
it all the more wonderful! He never would miss 
trains like that, come so often, unless— 

In the lane where she had picked the Mexican 
primrose, she stooped for another, fastened it in 
her belt. 

Meanwhile the primrose in Landry's coat had 
faded quickly, as they do, and he had thrown it out 
of the window. 

He opened a New Orleans newspaper he had 
bought at the station; turned to the stock reports. 

He opened the paper with the rather mature, in¬ 
different, leisurely air that many thought intriguing 
in young Landry; but when he found what he sought 
he became, in an instant, just a badly frightened 
boy. 

He turned chalk-white; his teeth chattered. 

Almost his first thought was for his mother’s dis¬ 
appointment; let us say that much for Landry. 
She would think he was a visionary like his father; 
a thing she always feared. Fie had not told her 
he was speculating, heavily for him, on what had 
seemed to him an infallible piece of information. 
He had tacitly promised not to speculate for him¬ 
self, when they bought him his seat on the Exchange. 


ELODI AND LANDRY 


129 


He’d been so proud of his seat,—the youngest 
member! Now, he suddenly faced failure, the loss 
of that cherished membership. 

He’d already drained the plantation dry. God! 
Why was this such an off yearj? They might have 
sold the place. Well, Camille would have had to; 
that’s all. But, now! 

Landry was spoiled; always got what he wanted. 
It was easy for him to ask for gifts; but he had 
never been trained to resourcefulness; he did not 
know what to do in a crisis. 

It was sickening, he thought. Why, that tip was 
as sure! He’d go to town; see how bad things 
were; see what could be done. 

Awaiting train connections in the junction station, 
he walked up and down restlessly, went out to the 
platform; felt that the old fisherman, the “drum¬ 
mer” and the woman in a black sunbonnet, fanning 
a baby, were regarding him curiously. He must not 
let his nervousness show like that. 

There was a burning in his throat as if he wanted 
to cry. 

It was strange that he dreaded the thought of 
confronting Mater, who always indulged him, and 
found himself wishing for Camille, who never, he 
felt, did him justice. 

He’d go to the city; find out what was what; then 
come back and talk to Camille,—maybe she could 
think of something,—before he told the others. 

A slight, graceful, smallish man, with dignity in 


130 


COME HOME 


his bodily poise and scholarly simplicity in the 
smooth, swarthy face between two panels of straight 
white hair, a man with still-youthful fire in dark 
eyes, swung briskly into the station. 

He stopped as, through the station window, he 
regarded Landry nervously pacing the platform. 

Then Judge Julien Le Boeuf contracted his large, 
bright eyes to sharp points, sat where Landry could 
see him, opened a paper, waited. 

Landry made two or three abortive attempts to 
approach him; then took a drink of water and came 
to him with a sad effort at naturalness. 

“Bonjour, mon Oncle Jubat!” 

“Bonjour, mon fils!” Judge Julien Le Boeuf 
made room for him. He was not a relative, ex¬ 
cept remotely, but had been Oncle Jubat to him al¬ 
ways. “AH going well with thee today?” 

The compelling eyes were on the paper when 
Landry began to say “Yes,” but they flashed up at 
him and he answered the truth to them, as every one 
did. 

“No, sir. Going horribly.” 

“You will tell me, then,” said Judge Julien simply; 
and Landry told him, after glancing cautiously about 
the station. 

The woman and the fisherman, he knew, spoke 
no English; the “drummer” was a stranger and fast 
going to sleep. 

But as the tale progressed, the sleepy “drummer” 
seemed to feel an astonishing interest in it. Lie put 


ELODI AND LANDRY 


131 

a newspaper over his head, breathed steadily and 
hard; but his ears were alert behind it. 

Judge Julien Le Boeuf forebore from comment on 
Landry’s folly. “I realize,” he said in his precise 
diction, “that every penny is needed on the planta¬ 
tion. But I suppose your family would prefer 
further losses there than to injure your career, so 
soon.” 

“Injure? To end it, sir!” 

The Judge made one of his characteristic grace¬ 
ful gestures. “Oh! No! When you are my age, 
—though I am not old, of course,” he relieved the 
air with a chuckle. “My hair is white, but not 
with age,—like the Prisoner of Chillon!—you will 
know, my dear young sir, that nothing ends. It 
is all the beginning of another beginning. But, they 
would rather hurt the plantation than your pros¬ 
pects; we may assume?” 

“Of course, they would.” 

The Judge’s eyes flashed displeasure but he 
veiled them and said, “Then, though you will 
doubtless find it against your conscience to put them 
to further sacrifice”—Landry felt uncomfortable 
under the glance that accompanied this—“I fear 
you must ask your father for the money he received 
yesterday for the sale of South Field.” 

Landry started, astonished. His father had sold 
a strip of the plantation and had not told him? He 
tried to conceal from the Judge that he did not know 
of the sale; but failed. 


i3 2 


COME HOME 


La Grande probably wanted to keep the money 
for the plantation, Judge Julien thought, so had not 
confided in this all-absorbent son. Too had! But 
none the less a godsend. Not enough to meet his 
obligations; but at least a way to bridge the abyss 
for Landry. 

Landry was torn by indecision. Should he go 
back home and “face the music”? His father’s re¬ 
proaches, his mother’s tears? Or first go to the 
city and see what could be done there? He pre¬ 
ferred that procrastination; something might come 
up; maybe Raoul Cantrelle would help him again. 
But suppose, in the meantime, his father should use 
that money! Camille had a hundred needs. Still 
—he ought to go to town. 

“With your permission, I will advise your father, 
privately, of your difficulties, request him for you not 
to employ that money until you write or come,” said 
the Judge, so long an adept at reading emotions. 
“And not to speak of it to madame, your mother, 
until it is necessary. If you choose?” 

“Oh! Will you, Oncle Jubat? It’ll be a life- 
saver. I know I’ll be able to pull out, if only— 
Here’s my train. Oncle Jubat, I can’t tell you how 
I appreciate your inconveniencing yourself.” 

“No matter, that. My only trouble is my con¬ 
science as regards your sister.” 

“Oh! Camille can manage.” He wrung the 
Judge’s hand, swung on the train. 

“And that is what the softness of women can do 


ELODI AND LANDRY 


133 


to the blood of heroes!” the Judge meditated, re¬ 
calling the stirring deeds of this worried boy’s an¬ 
cestors. 

Just before the train started, the somnolent 
“drummer” asked the agent to change his ticket; he 
had altered his plans; he wouldn’t go to Cureville 
after all; he’d go back to New Orleans. 

He smiled at chance. “This is doggone good,” 
he said to himself and entered the car, shared a sec¬ 
tion with Landry. 

He was an amusing fellow in a broad, vulgar 
way; Landry allowed his advances, because he 
hated the society of his own anxieties, just then; was 
glad to forget them for a while. 

When the train reached New Orleans his travel¬ 
ing companion told Landry he was mighty glad he’d 
met him, sort of providential just then; he was 
scouting for a friend who had lots of loose coin, 
wanted to invest in Louisiana securities. Looking 
for a broker. He’d taken a shine to Landry. If 
Landry cared to drop in to their hotel for dinner 
that night, he’d put him next. There was real 
money in this, and no long waiting for it, either. 
His man knew what he wanted. If they couldn’t 
do business, nobody’d be any the worse for it. 
Come along, take a chance like Sweeney. 

Landry dined, accordingly, with the well-dressed 
man from the North to whom his father’s associate, 
the Prowler, had telephoned that day from New 
Iberia. 


134 


COME HOME 


Some one had been trying to reach Landry himself 
by long distance, the hall-man told him when he re¬ 
turned to his own apartment. Some one in Cure- 
ville. 

He so hoped it was Judge Julien Le Boeuf, as he 
waited for the maddeningly slow connections, that 
when he heard Elodi’s voice Landry could not help 
showing disappointment in his own. 

He regretted it afterward. He probably had 
sounded annoyed. But that was the trouble with 
girls,—always thought a man had nothing to do but 
play with them. 

Cute youngster; but he mustn’t let her assume 
too much. Calling him up from Cureville! 

He wondered if he could sleep. He’d try again 
to locate Raoul before he turned in. 

Little Elodi, in her room above the chinaberry 
trees, flooded with the fragrance of their blossoms, 
was crying herself to sleep because Landry hadn’t 
been glad when she called him. 


CHAPTER XI 


WHO CAN, MUST 

D AN and Berne were coming down the shell- 
lily path, now pink with bloom, to the road 
beside the coulee f a pail for berries swing¬ 
ing between them. They met little black Beetee in 
the tall grasses with her glistening arms full of 
great red blossoms. 

“I done brang you dese-hyere powerful big red 
lilies, Missy. Dey’ll look handsome in de yaller 
vase. Shoestring done fotched ’em fo’ me; he say 
I could keep ’em. But I’s feared he done stole dem 
flowers from Mister Jonas; so I believe dey’ll be 
better off in yo’ keepin’, Missy.” 

Beetee with the lilies made a “handsome” picture 
herself. “Painters go to the South Seas to get 
that,” Dan said to Berne. 

The weeks had slipped by, putting red and brown 
in Daniel’s face, lifting his head. Louisiana was 
restoring him. 

With an adaptability that was characteristic, he 
had glided into the life about him, delighting his 
grandfather by a graceful and whimsical companion¬ 
ship, charmingly winning the favor of his neighbors. 

135 


136 


COME HOME 


With equally characteristic laissez-faire, he was 
content to stay on, fishing, sailing, riding, loafing, 
being feted and petted; as welcome in the square 
cottages of the ’Cajan laborers, where his French 
and his ancestry were a passe-partout for him, or 
on the fishermen’s boats “down by de bayoo,” as in 
the friendly homes of his own circle. 

“What a pity he don’t live here; no?” people 
said to one another. “He is so gay,—so young 
cavalier; yes?”—“You remember, maybe, Gaston 
Barde, of the General the cousin?”—“Oh, yes! 
Before the War of the States he also was called 
the Gay Barde. Everybody loved him too, like 
this one.”—“Who could forget? I remember him 
when I was a child, me. You have right. This 
one is jost the same. Laugh, play, make you love 
him; hein ?”—“He listen so polite to every one; al- 
way know what you mean; is it no? Always some¬ 
thing amiable to say back— quick / Oh, a brave 
young man!”—“He is true Louisianian, real Barde, 
—too bad he goes away!”—“Oh, yes; too bad!” 

From day to day, he put off decisions for his 
future. He liked it here. It was good for him. 
Wait, until he was sure he was well! 

Berne was good for him, too. He knew that and 
he had fallen back into his childhood custom of 
“coming around to play with her.” Even the pricks 
of her frank tongue he felt to be salutary to his 
laggard spirit; and their directness amused him. 
Her boyishness was restful; no appeal for unneeded 


WHO CAN, MUST 


137 


protection here; no demand for gallantry or com¬ 
pliments. Her friendship was sexless; or, at least, 
he thought so. And that left him free to fall in 
love with her, with nobody to be hurt but himself. 

He must leave before he got to care too much, 
though. He felt himself going fast. 

Too bad! But the thing would not do. Flame 
would never desert this place until it was safe, out 
of its debts, productive, secured for Little Brother 
and for them all, even if,—as he dared not dream, 
—he could win her. He knew that and, from what 
his grandfather said, he knew, too, that it was a 
long hope. 

His own income, ample for a life of agreeable 
ease, with the background of his mother’s larger 
resources, was by no means enough to rebuild the 
La Grande fortunes. As for spending his own life 
here,—on this farm, —impossible, of course 1 
Equally of course, he could not desert his mother, 
who had always remained his playmate and for his 
sake had never remarried. He remembered how 
he had wept in the night when he was a boy and 
that young English captain,—well, she hadn’t! 
And now it was his turn. 

If he ever did marry, it must be some one in her 
group ; even that would present emotional difficulties. 
She and Flame, she with her love of life’s toys 
and games and elegancies, her graceful insincerities, 
—and Flame! He could not even imagine them to¬ 
gether. 


COME HOME 


138 

He looked at the tendrils that lay on Berne’s 
white neck between the heavy braids of hair hang¬ 
ing over her shoulders, and took a quick breath. 
Yes, sir; he’d have to go home soon. 

There were Martin Pinckney, who could afford to 
do anything he wished for lie Imaginaire, and that 
Guidry youngster, who, at least, could run a plan¬ 
tation. He winced at the thought of either; but 
what had he to do with it,—who could not offer 
himself? 

If he were at work in his profession,—off some¬ 
where in the mines making enough to live on so 
that they could put the plantation under a manager, 
—Flame in the West with him,—what a comrade I 
Supposing, of course, that she would! 

No,—he would not entirely “put it up” to his 
mother! He, himself; would he make good, do 
Flame justice, become able to relieve these condi¬ 
tions without asking her to wait longer than would 
be fair to her? Honestly, he did not know. 

Even before the War, he had been none too 
secure against the call of the things he liked, sum¬ 
mers on the Brittany Coast or in the Berkshires or 
on a boat out of Nantucket; winters on the Riviera 
or in Rome with his jolly mother. It had been hard 
to stick even to college when these were calling. 
And now,—when he was used up, could not keep 
a steadfast interest in anything for long! He never 
would dare take a chance with Flame’s happiness 
now. 


WHO CAN, MUST 


139 


The answer was that he must not want to do so. 
Oh, but he did want to! 

Before the War he had played, but he had not 
loafed. He had always been busy at something or 
other, however unimportant, always planning some¬ 
thing pleasant, putting something interesting into 
shape, learning to be expert at something. 

But now! Would he stick to the mines? 
Could hq? 

Dan was very young. His mother had spoiled 
him. It will not do to be too hard upon him. He 
was hard upon himself, and, perhaps, that was a 
sign in his favor. He had not discovered what lay 
within him beneath the gaiety and kindness that 
made other people make allowances for him. He 
made none for himself, at least. 

He decided just to play awhile longer with Flame, 
keep from caring if he could, be happy while the 
comradeship lasted. Meanwhile, he was good for 
her, too; he could see that, himself. She needed 
to be made gay. “Gather the rosebuds while ye 
may!” 

But the arc of the tin handle of the bucket be¬ 
tween her hand and his seemed alive, vibrant in his 
palm. 

Well, nobody was hurt but him; Flame probably 
placed him somewhere between Landry and Odrasse. 

“I’m afraid to ask what you’re thinking so hard,” 
he said, “for fear you’ll say something learned 
about crops. But why so terribly severe the morn? 


140 


COME HOME 


You hardly thanked Beetee for letting you receive 
the stolen goods for her.” 

She laughed. “You’re such a festive soul, you 
think that everybody who isn’t laughing is getting 
ready to cry. Just then, I was thinking about you.” 

“And that made you so sad?” 

“When do you go away?” 

“Ah! It is a compliment, after all. You’ll be 
sorry, Flame?” 

“But it will mean that you are well.” 

They were turning into the narrow, shaded 
coulee road, under the high bushes. He put down 
the bucket, laid his hands on her shoulders. 

“Camille Berenicia Marie,” he said reproachfully. 
“Are you hinting to me to be gone?” 

A quick flash of pain betrayed her. Daniel— 
gone! 

“Oh, no! I want you to stay and play, Da! 
•You know I do. Why, I’ve been waiting for you 
to come and play ever since they took you away, 
’way back yonder! But, of course, the main thing 
for you is getting back into life again, being sound. 
I wondered—” 

But he had seen that flash of pain in Berne’s 
eyes; he recognized it. His throat was throbbing. 

“Berne! Flame!” he whispered, dizzy with the 
discovery. 

She smiled with pressed lips, and put her hand 
upon his mouth. 

“Sh! Da!” she said. “Better not! I know all 


WHO CAN, MUST 


141 


about it,— Gai-Da. What you’ve been—thinking. 
It wouldn’t do, of course. Far better take the 
friendship,—and let’s not say any more.” 

“You— know , Flame?” 

“Of course. But that’s no reason for not living 
along. Garde-toi! Let’s go berrying.” 

“You most amazing—! You are right. I must 
not let you care. It won’t matter about me ” 

She said quite simply,—her nature was too frank, 
even in all the small things of life, to bear evasion 
or false concealment in a great one,—“No. It 
won’t matter about you; because you don’t care very 
much. Just a new shoot; easy to pluck it up. But 
it’s a habit with me, you see. Had time to grow— 
deep roots. All my life. Come, Da!” 

“Flame,—my dear girl! I cannot—” He held 
her shoulders tight. “You can’t mean—” 

“Let me go, Dan,” said Berne with a strange deep 
note in her voice. “Let me go. You don’t know 
what you are doing.” 

He dropped his hands. “You won’t let me tell 
you I—” 

“No. Let’s go berrying.” 

Daniel was ashamed of himself for obeying her; 
yet he knew that she was right. 

“I’m not worth it,” he said, picking up the pail. 

“No,” said Berne. 

He turned amazed, hurt eyes to her. 

“No; you’re not,” she repeated. 

“Then, why—” 


142 


COME HOME 


“Who knows? The little long-ago one was 
worth it. It was with him I fell in love, you know. 
That energetic small boy who always ‘took up’ for 
me,—was always so ready to fight for his opinions 
—had such dreams!” She smiled wistfully at the 
old memory. “He sort o’ made a background for 
my own dreams when they came. Prince Florizel 
and John Ridd used to look like him to me. So 
—you see! Just a habit. Let it be. Let’s go 
berrying. What yori need is something to do, mon 
ami.” 

“Reckon you’re right, honey. You’re not fond 
of me. It’s a little shaver you remember you’ve 
been hankering after. Just like out of a story¬ 
book, as you say. Better so. Heaps better so. 
And I’m not worth it; you’re right about that, too. 
Only, honey, ’taint sweet to hurt a fellow’s pride 
so enthusiastically. You went to it with your little 
scalpel; didn’t you?” He tried to laugh. “ ‘I’m 
no good,’ says I. ‘Double it,’ says she.” 

“O Dan dear!” 

“Of course, I know why I’m so inconsiderable. 
But what makes you so sure of it? Is it because 
I’m—” 

“Lazy.” 

“No. I don’t believe I am. You know how 
hard I play!” 

“You’re the best playmate in the world!” 

“Thanks for the crumb!—No’m; I’m not lazy. 
It is something to play with pep. Real lazy folk 


WHO CAN, MUST 


H 3 


don’t. No. It’s just not having had sufficient 
reason to toil, Flame. Idle, frivolous; all right. 
Not lazy. And one’s environment! Now, Over 
There, I loved to labor. There was a cause. But 
before that, when I used to get restless and want to 
settle to something definite and my mother’d want 
to go travelling instead,—why, everything I could 
think of doing was being done and well done by a lot 
of experts; much keener than I.” His voice was 
eager; not apologetic, not pleading. Fie only 
wanted her to think as well of him as she could. 
“Nobody, nothing, seemed to need my work, as much 
as my mother and the rest of them needed my play. 
It did sort of jazz them up to have me around. Is 
that a conceited remark?” 

His winning grin faded. “Then the War— 
finished me even for that. I do want to work.” 
He refrained from pleading his illness; but it was 
that that held his imagination; could he stand firm 
now, ill as he was? “That Flame you were telling 
me about, dear,—mine’s had nothing to feed it.— 
You said ‘friendship.’ You need a strong friend, 
Berenicia mi a. Not just a playmate.” He was 
silent, then, “Like Martin Pinckney. Or good 
Odrasse.” Then, suddenly, “No! I’ll be hanged 
if I’ll let that stand! I’m as strong a friend as any. 
And I could be as good a—well!” 

“Never mind, Dan,” Berne whispered. 

But her thought said, “If he loved me, he’d have 
reason enough to conquer, illness and all. I’m not 


144 


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the kindling for his fire. Not the mate for whom 
he’ll want to build a nest.” She was as honest with 
her own heart as with the world, this girl. 

Daniel’s eyes smarted; he knew what she must 
be thinking; saw the justice of it; and yet he knew 
that he did love her, none the less. 

The boy was confusing his illness and his training 
with himself. He felt the strength underlying; but 
could not reach it. Well, if play was all he could 
do, he’d do that well, at least. He wouldn’t be a 
whiner and spoil what joy there was. 

“I accept the diagnosis, Doctor,” he said. “I’m 
all you say. But I’m fond of you all the same, 
dear girl.” 

He lifted the arched handle of the pail and kissed 
her hand that held it. 

She patted his head with the other. “Don’t be 
sorry,” she said. “And don’t go ‘pooring’ me y old 
fellow. I’ve got a heap to think about before I 
begin to pine,” she laughed. “And, unless I miss 
my guess, here comes trouble right now.” 

Peter was running towards them, had made a 
short cut through the bushes. 

“Hey! Sis! Please come back home a minute! 
I’m in trouble.” He was panting. “Come on 
quick, please!” 

“What is it, Peterkin?” 

“Get your breath, son,” Dan advised. “You 
sound like an air compressor.” 

Peter began breathlessly, a worried frown be- 


WHO CAN, MUST 145 

tween his brows, but a twinkle, in spite of him, in 
his eyes. 

“Uncle Hope was wondering why the big white 
hen’s chicks didn’t hatch out. And he sneaked back 
to the hen-house to see if anything was at her, or 
anything. And when he got to the hen-house,”— 
Peter threw back his head and couldn’t help laugh¬ 
ing,—“there were Leonard and Robbie,”—the two 
smallest lads from Gertrude Plantation. Peter 
stopped for breath. “And they’d chased the big 
hen off the nest and—Gee!—but she was mad! 
And Leonard was hovering the eggs—kind of sitting 
on ’em—and Robbie was up on the roof of the hen¬ 
house, flapping his wings and crowing. They said 
they were helping the hen.” 

“But how did that put you in trouble?” Berne 
asked, when she could. 

Peter was all anxiety again. “Oh! Uncle Hope 
is going to punish Gamin for it. And I don’t want 
Gamin punished.” 

“Gamin,—the dog?” Dan asked. 

“Yessir. Gamin’s in charge of the chickens and 
Uncle Hope says Gamin shouldn’t have permitted 
it. Oh, Sis! He’s cutting a switch! I hear him. 
Won’t you please come stop him?” 

In the chicken yard,—with its background of fig- 
trees, draped in moss for the chickens to pick at, and 
decorated with large red-combed white roosters, like 
a series of Japanese screens,—Gamin, the fox- 
terrier, was herding his snowy flocks, rounding up 


146 


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strays, snapping at the quarrelsome, separating the 
fighters, authoritatively hustling about, not knowing 
what a humiliation Uncle Hope was preparing. 

Two remorseful small boys were interceding for 
him. 

“Aw, now! Uncle Hope! Gamin couldn’t 
keep us from going in the hen-house. Honest!” 
said Leonard. “You can tell our Dad on us, if 
you want.” 

“Oh! Poo!” chubby little Robbie exclaimed. 
“Don’t need to tell nobody on nobody. Old hen’s 
all right. And we didn’t break the eggs.” 

“Nossah!” Uncle Hope said relentlessly. 
“Reckon you-all ain’t heard tell what de old folks’ 
proverb say’: ‘Rat eats de cane, but Lizard dies 
for it.’ ” 

“I don’t know what that means, Uncle Hope. 
But, please, don’t beat Gamin for what we did,” 
cried Leonard. “We’ll never, never do it again. 
We didn’t know it would hurt anything.” 

“Uh-huh! Think about dat now, hey? Dat’s 
it. Dat’s how it is. ‘If-I-had-knowed always 
marches behind, never leads de way.’ Dat’s what 
de old folks say. Well, den, does you young gentle¬ 
men swear to pretty you won’t never seduce Gamin 
from his bounden duty no mo’ and you won’t never 
infringe on dese-hyere chicken-yard premises?” 

“Oh, yes! We will promise.” 

“Yes; me, too!” 


WHO CAN, MUST 


H 7 


“All right, den, if you is made up yo’ minds not 
to infest dis yard no mo’. Run along and play. 
Go on, now. Allez!” 

He threw away the switch and turned, grinning, 
to Daniel. “Reckon I wouldn’t hit dat Gamin dog 
fo’ nobody f Mist’ Daniel. But dat’s de way to 
bring up li’l gentlemen, sah; dat’s how we fotches 
up our gentlemen,—make ’em regret de result of 
dey’ misdoin’s by showin’ how it gwine come down 
and hurt somebody else. Yes, Lawd, Dat’s de 
way I brung up Mist’ Ned, and now look what a 
monstrous fine man he done growed to! ’Twas me 
done did it. Um-huh.” 

The way to bring up gentlemen? Right-o! Old 
Hope was right, Dan thought, and nobody was going 
to take this licking but himself. He’d go away 
pronto lest any of his “misdoing” should “come 
down on” Flame. She did not really care, now; 
that was plain. It was what she remembered of 
their childhood,—or thought she did; she’d said so. 
Lonely here, dreaming of their little days together. 
It was touching; it was sweet. But it wasn’t being 
in love with him. He wouldn’t let it grow to be. 

“You isn’t gwine berryin’, Miss Berne?” Uncle 
Hope eyed the pail. 

“Unless you need me, Uncle Hope.” 

No; he didn’t need her. He only thought she 
might want to interview Onestide, though. He was 
having trouble with the pump. And also, Hope 


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had reason to suspect,—he glanced at her vacantly 
but Berne got his intended warning,— somebody 
was going to visit her father that morning. 

She sighed. The berrying was over. 

“Cares again? 1 ’ Dan asked sympathetically. 
But Berne was indifferent then to his sympathy, 
seemed almost to forget him. Would he mind wait¬ 
ing on the porch? She must go to Onestide. 

Berne’s cares had been heavy since that day when 
she had returned from Petite Anse to discover 
Landry at home, hysterically undoing all that Judge 
Julien Le Boeuf had adroitly prepared for him the 
night before. 

Berne had found her mother in bed in tears and 
her father on the verge of collapse, but for once 
adamant in his position. 

No. He had promised all the money received 
from the sale of South Field, he maintained; 
Landry could not have it. Some was already 
applied; the rest was promised, definitely, unalter¬ 
ably. No; he did not care to tell for what. What 
did that matter? The result was to save them all, 
—it was more important even than Landry’s affair. 
Landry could find some other way; he must find 
one. He could not have this money. No. 

He showed the strength of the weak, poor gentle¬ 
man, suffering between his wife’s reproaches and 
Landry’s importunities. It was bitter for him to 
see Mater’s grief. But he stood his ground. 

Of course, the others assumed that it was for 


WHO CAN, MUST 


149 


the plantation that the money was needed. For 
Camille, of course ! Of all the mismanaged places! 
This plantation was a sieve! 

Berne had had a terrible interview with them all 
in Mater’s bedroom. But she took the blame they 
gave her; for the Commodore’s sake said nothing, 
refused to reveal her knowledge of his secret, re¬ 
garded the sign of silence he made to her. She was 
jealous for his self-respect, poor Commodore! She 
knew what ridicule, what complaints, would follow 
his revelation. Bad enough for him when the in¬ 
evitable failure of his wild dreams should come. 
Let him save his dignity, at least. 

He believed it was his project that she was saving, 
and that it was worth her championship; so he 
allowed her to shield it, much as it irked him. 

He had slipped into her room that night and 
kissed her as she slept, whispered, “My son!” 
Then, looking down at her, suddenly remorseful, 
“My poor little girl!” he had amended. 

It had ended, as all the financial troubles ended, 
by a greater burden on the land. They had mort¬ 
gaged part of the rice-crop to tide Landry over the 
crisis. He needed only to be tided over, he said; 
he would soon recover. Besides, he had something 
big up his sleeve. He had his secrets, too, he told 
his father. Berne felt a menace as he said it. 

Mater and Landry had gone to the city, relieved; 
Mr. La Grande was left to his mystery and to com¬ 
parative peace. 


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But Berne had as little faith in Landry’s schemes 
as in her father’s. 

Soon that extended note would come due. 

It all depended on a good crop. Le bon Dieu 
send a good crop and good prices! 

All that money, she thought today, all that money 
for her dear South Field poured into the claws of 
the buzzard called Prowler, who was coming back 
that day! 

Uncle Hope was doing excellently with the few 
cattle and the corn. Nothing must happen to the 
rice! 

She stood now on a little rise of ground under the 
arch of an oak, looked over the blue lagoons Ben- 
Dayed with green points of growing rice. It was 
going well so far. If they could only keep up that 
pump and that tractor. A little grass had grown 
as tall as the rice on account of the late planting,— 
if they could keep it “drowned” and the rice sus¬ 
tained with water! There was no indigo weed. 
No sign of wild rice. Little fear of blight. All 
flourishing,—so far! 

But her eyes clouded as they fell on Bayou Ver¬ 
milion. From her hillock, she commanded a long 
sweep of its wild, winding channel. She could see 
that the stream was low. The usual summer rains 
had not come. 

There was a cloud of glistening dust about that 
wagon driving along the road; the leaves of the 
Cherokee bushes were powdered white as flower- 
petals. The sun beat hot. 


WHO CAN, MUST 


151 

Berne smoothed her brow with both hands. 

“It’s got to come through. lie Imaginaire has 
its Flame Within, too. Its own Life must save it. 
I’ll not worry. I’ll leave it to the Flame. And 
work like the deuce!” She smiled, but the smile 
faded quickly. 

The buggy in its cloud of dust passed below her. 

“That man!” She saw the Prowler driving. 
Better dressed now and driving his buggy; Berne 
knew where the money for that came from. He 
could always be expected when Mater was in the 
city. 

Ah, well! Now for faithful, worried Onestide! 

She hated to ask it of her kind neighbor in his 
own busy season, but she knew that Mr. Jonas of 
Gertrude Plantation would come again and lend his 
men’s aid on that outworn tractor and pump. 

Dear Dan would have to wait today, till she had 
done her tasks. She knew he would wait,—while 
she worked. She set her lips, swung back the heavy 
braids over her shoulders and went briskly to see 
about the pump. 

At least the Prowler could not get much more 
from her father. There’d be no more to give him. 
Blessed be nothing! 

She whistled to a scarlet tanager swinging on the 
yaupon tree, smiled at a flurry of painted buntings 
that flashed past her, set her mind on her job. 


CHAPTER XII 


DANIEL IS ENLISTED 

A S Dan sat on the brick terrace waiting for 
Berne, he surveyed himself, trying to see 
the situation straight. But straight, clear 
thinking was difficult while there floated before his 
eyes Berne’s face, suddenly for a fleeting moment 
soft, yearning, loving,—for that second, his. 

His? Or that little boy’s,—the boy he used to 
be back yonder? The boy she had relied upon, ad¬ 
mired. Was that boy quite dead? 

His thought was interrupted by hoof-beats. 

The blue filly cantered to the gate. Odrasse tied 
her and came up the lily-path. He had come to 
talk to Berne and was disappointed at finding Daniel 
.there before him. 

The boy was torn between jealousy that made 
Daniel’s proximity almost unbearable to him and 
a younger man’s esteem for one who had had heroic 
experiences, a country lad’s admiration for the 
graces of a cosmopolitan. 

Daniel read the boy easily. He liked this young 
planter, appreciated his efforts to be hospitable to 
him. Odrasse had taken Dan fishing, sponsored 

152 


DANIEL IS ENLISTED 


»53 


him at a country ball, introduced him to the most 
interesting of the trappers and hunters. Pretty 
decent, for a lad who felt him to be trespassing on 
his “best girl’s” society. 

Dan wanted to win his friendship. He talked 
about Vitesse, the blue filly, revealing a knowledge 
of a horse’s points that raised him in Odrasse’s 
opinion. He gave him some good stories of the 
polo field. He told him, quite casually, that his 
stay in the parish was nearing its close, and then, 
with the naturalness of two friends admiringly dis¬ 
cussing a third, he talked about Berenicia. 

Odrasse felt an immense relief. Evidently he’d 
been a sort of chump; had misjudged the situation. 
Barde had not been trying to take Berne away. Of 
course, they’d want to be together, life-long friends 
like that, for the short time they had. He had let 
his jealousy keep him from a mighty fine friendship, 
and he was going to try to make up for it in the time 
left him. Why, he actually liked talking about 
Berenicia to Barde now! 

“She’s a wonder,” he said. “You have to run 
a plantation to know how hard it is to keep every¬ 
thing going on a place like this, keep everybody 
happy, Barde, to know what a wonder Berne is. A 
pretty girl like her,—don’t you think she’s mighty 
pretty?” 

“Beautiful.” Dan, realizing that he liked to 
talk about her as much as the other did, smiled 
cynically at himself. “She looked like the Edwin 


154 


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Abbey Cordelia today, with her two heavy coppery 
braids of hair—” 

“That’s a picture, I suppose? Cordelia! Oh! 
Xing Lear’s daughter, wasn’t she? Why, admir¬ 
able! That’s exactly like Berne. Isn’t that the 
one who always told the truth and wouldn’t say 
more than she meant and suffered for it,—and was 
so loyal? Why, Mr. Barde, that’s Berne! If that 
picture looks like her, I reckon that that artist under¬ 
stands faces.” 

Then Odrasse added, half under his breath, “I 
wish some one could take the burdens from her.” 

And Daniel, uncomfortable at being under false 
colors, replied simply, “I wish to God I could, 
Guidry. But I can’t.” 

So that was it! There was a long silence. Then 
Odrasse said, “Dommage ! It’s a pity. If it 
couldn’t be myself, I’d like—” but he was too 
honest to complete the sentence. He wouldn’t like 
it to be anybody. He blushed and by one of those 
strange twists of thought-entanglement, as he felt 
himself blushing, he remembered Elodi Huval in 
the little plaza, blushing under the pink sunshade. 

A cloud of dust subsiding at the gate, revealed 
the Prowler in his buggy. Odrasse frowned at the 
man, who went out back of the house and down to 
the bayou’s marge to join Mr. La Grande. 

Your Creole-’Cajan is an interesting combination 
of caution and impulsiveness. He has a surface 
suspicion of strangers that keeps him almost dour 


DANIEL IS ENLISTED 


*55 


until his heart is reached; but a smile, a turn of a 
phrase, a sympathetic sentiment can reach it in a 
moment. Then he is subject to generous, immediate 
capitulation, becomes in a flash a welcoming host, 
a devoted friend, as enthusiastic and unsuspecting 
as a child. And he holds loyally to those to whom 
he gives himself. 

Thus Odrasse belonged to Daniel now and with 
the frankness of his kind, he said to him, “Did you 
see that man? If you want to help Berne, help 
me watch him. You have nothing to do. You 
have time. Will you help me watch that fellow?” 

“I—what do you mean? That man hurt 
Berenicia? Why, her father is receiving him! 
What—I don’t understand.” 

“Oh, my friend, you can’t be down here even this 
long without finding out that monsieur, Berne’s 
father, is darn easy to impose upon! I’m not 
giving anything away; everybody knows it.” 

“Yes. I’ve been told.” 

“Will you walk to the couleef n Mr. La Grande 
and the Prowler were approaching the house. 
“I’m going to tell you. Si. I’m going to tell you.” 

Seated on a log by the coulee, Odrasse told Daniel 
how he and Berenicia had made a heronry in the 
swamp woods where some of Mr. Ned’s birds had 
chosen to nest, patterned after the paradise at Petite 
Anse. 

“There are two little lakes, pools, in the woods, 
partly on La Grande, partly on Guidry land. It 


156 


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was Guidry land.” He sighed. “One, on a small 
dry plateau, is called Pool o’ the Moon. The 
other’s more down in the swamp; Berne named it 
L’Ecu des Cypres for the crown, the ring, of cypress 
trees around it. That’s the one the herons live on. 
I said both pools used to be part on our land, part 
on theirs; but my father sold our strip to Mr. La 
Grande. I was pretty mad at first. I’m a terrible 
hot-head, mon ami! I thought Berne was trying to 
get rid of me. Pm a fool; that’s true. You see, it 
was just after I had tried to tell her—” 

“Quite natural. And now you are suspicious of 
what? Why?” 

It did not seem reasonable, Odrasse said, for a 
planter to exchange good land for useless swamp, 
as Mr. La Grande had done. To be sure, there was 
timber on it; but hard to get out and La Grande 
already had more swamp timber than he needed. 
Besides, Odrasse saw that something was worrying 
Berne; she kept going into the heronry; seemed to 
be watching. Odrasse felt that she was on guard 
and that she didn’t want to say why. He didn’t 
like Berne’s going into the sw r amp alone, even with 
her little revolver. 

“I was afraid it was some fool scheme and that 
Mr. La Grande was being used and that she sus¬ 
pected it. So I got the idea of building a platform 
like Mr. Ned’s,—like a little blind, you know,—in 
our heronry. She wants it to be ours just the 
same.” He flushed again. “And so I told Berne 


DANIEL IS ENLISTED 


157 


I’d be in there and she said, ‘I wish you would, 
‘Drasse.’ So I did.” 

“She said she wished it, so Odrasse did,” Daniel 
said to himself. He envied Odrasse. 

Hidden in the thicket where he was building his 
platform, Odrasse went on, he had seen that man 
acting “funny.” Once he had taken a picture of 
herons in their nest and that made Odrasse think 
he was a plume-hunter. But, at another time, he 
had followed him cautiously and had seen him with 
instruments and papers at the edge of Pool o’ the 
Moon; and that was farther off, by a dry place; in 
the same forest, but out of the morass,—where no 
nests were. 

“But what could he want? Why fear him? 
What harm could he do there?” Daniel asked. 
Odrasse did not know. But Berne seemed to feel 
he needed watching; that was enough for Odrasse. 
And why did he bring, as twice he had done, strange 
people with him? 

Now, however, as the season advanced, Odrasse 
was so busy with the plantation, it was impossible 
to keep his watch. For days he was unable to go 
there at all. And Berne was just as busy; every¬ 
body was. Nobody went in the swamp at all. But 
Barde had nothing to do. Would he not sometimes 
go from the Guidry woods to the Pool o’ the Moon 
and L’Ecu des Cypres and—” 

“And play sentinel? Certainly,” Dan assented 
readily, because it was hard to refuse and because 


i 5 8 


COME HOME 


it amused him; not that he took Odrasse’s fears 
seriously. The man was probably a queer coot who 
liked to hang about in the swamps; or maybe he 
disobeyed game laws, at worst. 

But, as soon as Daniel had consented to do this 
protective thing for Berne, useless as he thought 
it, there rose in him a flood of elation, a joyous up- 
rush of energy that left him astonished at himself. 

“You say this fellow had people with him? 
Don’t you know who they were?” 

“One, I know. Borel Veriot. A young loafer. 
Lives at Petite Anse. But I can’t ask anything un¬ 
less Berne lets me. Maybe her father said they 
could go there. But I don’t like it, Barde.” 

“You’ll show me the way soon?” 

“Now; if you want. We can leave word with old 
Hope for Berne.” 

Daniel could not help smiling at Odrasse’s zeal. 
Kids always dream of rescuing their ladies, he 
thought. He was not many years older than 
Odrasse, but he felt greatly his senior. And his 
smile broadened as he saw, through the window, this 
man, whom Odrasse thought menacing, closeted in 
confidential talk with Flame’s father. 

Odrasse’s bright blue eyes shone as Dan put his 
arm across the boy’s shoulder and accompanied him 
to the stables. The Barde buggy was waiting there; 
they both rode in it, leading an outraged Vitesse 
behind them. 

Mr. La Grande sat at the escritoire, the Prowler, 


DANIEL IS ENLISTED 


>59 


clipped and brushed but not the less predatory and 
disagreeable, was near him. 

I tell you, my man, this check is not only small, 
as you justly observe,” Mr. La Grande smiled the 
cryptic smile. “But also it is final. There is no 
more. C’est tout. Finis. The end. You under¬ 
stand? I cannot raise another cent. You must 
finish or—we are finished.” 

Prowler leaned forward, took the check, then 
whispered, “I have finished.” 

Mr. La Grande flushed painfully. “You have— 
found it?” His thin hand beat a tattoo on the desk. 
“1 ou thought, before,—twice before,—and—and 
you were wrong. Are you sure, now?” 

“Practically sure. Before, we didn’t own that 
strip of Guidry woods.” 

“We sir?” 

“Aw, you of course! Don’t need to go off like 
that. We couldn’t find that buried rock before,— 
not many rocks around in this neighborhood; you 
said yourself that if there was one, it must have 
fallen from the sky,—a meteor or something. Well 
we found it. A big, black, sunk rock. Queer 
lookin’. Maybe it is a meteor. And the two 
Indian mounds. And—other things. Not much 
further to go. Unless I miss my guess and I bet 
yer I don’t miss it, we’re pretty hot on the trail.” 

“If it is in the land I got from Guidry,” a cloud 
crossed his face. “Perhaps we ought to share—” 

“Aw! No!” quickly. “The rock’s on his side 


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COME HOME 


of the water; but it looks to me like the stuff*s on 
yourn. Anyway it was stolen from your folks.” 

“Water? The Cypress Pool?” 

The Prowler started guiltily. “No! No! 
Most likely that white pool—where I thought it was 
—further on.” 

“The Pool o’ the Moon?” 

“That what you call it? Well, in two weeks 
from today, let’s say, we'll know. Then get your 
men and I’ll have mine and we'll drain and dig and 
find her; eh?” 

“In two weeks!” Mr. La Grande sank back in 
his chair. He rang for coffee. 

Singsie looked at him sharply as she brought it. 
There were hectic spots in his cheeks. 

At last the Prowler drew the check from his 
pocket, refolded and replaced it there, rose and held 
out his hand to Mr. La Grande. This time*his host 
took the proffered hand. 

As they stood in the doorway, an automobile 
was heard coming from Cureville. 

“Probably my son,” Mr. La Grande said. “He 
is bringing a guest from the city. Pardon! I’ll go 
to the gate. Adieu! Good luck!'’ 

But Prowler stood rooted to the spot, a sickly 
white, his eyes fixed upon the large, loud man seated 
beside Landry. 

“The devil!” he gasped. “What the hell did he 
have to come down here himself for?—Is he ‘on,’ 
or what?—Well, he’ll have to move quick to get 



DANIEL IS ENLISTED 


161 


me off of my game; I’ll tell him. Good work I got 
the check before he come!” 

He slipped behind the house as Landry opened 
the car-door for Elodi, sweet as a flower in her 
favored pink, whom he had found in her garden in 
Cureviile and invited to come visit Berne. 


CHAPTER XIII 


JUD BURDEN TELLS THE WORLD 

B ERNE met the Prowler in the road. He 
took off his hat to her with an exaggerated 
deference, an ugly expression in his 
opaque eyes. For the first time since their en¬ 
counter in the woods, he ventured to speak to her. 

“Well, Miss La Grande,” he said. “Not goin’ 
to shoot me today? You certainly was mad that 
time. And, you see, I wasn't hurting a thing. 
.With all your watching me, you haven’t got a thing 
on me; now, have you?” 

“That’s well,” Berne said and tried to pass. 

He placed himself in her path. 

“Wait a minute, please’m. Want to ask you 
somethin’.” 

“Yes?” 

“What you got against me? I never done you 
nothing. Why'd you go tell Borel Veriot’s boss not 
to let him get away from the salt mine, not to leave 
him have so many days offj? ’Cause you found out 
he was goin’ around with me? Huh?” 

“Borel has often been in trouble. Mr. Ned is 
giving him his last chance in the mine. Several 


JUD BURDEN TELLS THE WORLD 163 


times he has been here, far away from his work, with 
you, and has got drunk somewhere around this place. 
I won’t have that and I don’t want any of Mr. 
Ned’s people getting in bad company on Imaginaire. 
So I told the foreman.” 

“Bad company?” menacingly. 

“Boys don’t get drunk in good company. Step 
out of my way, please.” 

“Just a minute, miss! I got to tell you some¬ 
thing. I need Borel on some business for your 
Paw. So he’s coming with me now, a few days, 
leave or no leave, drunk or sober. I said, business 
for your Paw. So, please, keep your hands off. 
Don’t go telling his Maw where he is, nor his girl, 
nor his boss, nor nobody. Ask your Paw, if you 
don’t want to do like I say. It’s made us trouble 
enough, your buttin’ in. So just kindly lay off; will 
you?” 

Berne’s cheeks were pulsating; the angry little girl 
who threw the oyster shell at Daniel looked out of 
her eyes. But she pressed her lip and waited until 
the muscles of her cheeks were quiet, the golden eyes 
still and cool again. 

“I don’t like the way you speak to me,” she said. 
“Get out of my way.” 

After a few steps she turned. “One thing! If 
you’re taking advantage of my father, you’ll pay for 
it. Every gentleman around here is his friend. 
And they’re not all as—kind as he is.” 

“So!” he said to himself as she went on. 


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“That’s it; is it? Well, now, I’ll go through with 
the other thing, no matter what Burden came down 
here for. Every damn bird! I’ll show her!” 

Berne decided not to tell her father of the man’s 
impertinence. Trouble enough telling him the 
tractor had broken again. 

He, meanwhile, was lying on the couch, trying to 
entertain Landry’s guest. It astonished him that 
his son had brought this visitor home. Of course 
he understood,—a business acquaintance; perhaps it 
was policy. But he was of the old school and found 
that thought distasteful. 

The large visitor was dressed in cream ( -color 
summer clothing with too yellow an undertone; 
his tie was vivid and the hat Beetee had taken from 
him was broad and flowing as if he had used it to 
“make up” as a planter because he was visiting a 
plantation; it had been fastened to his shoulders by 
a cord. His hands, heavy enough in themselves, 
were heavier with symbol rings of obscure orders; 
the finger-nails were shiny and pink, manicured by 
some woman, his host supposed with a shudder. 

“Yes sir ” he was exclaiming. “I like Loosy- 
anner; always did. Best cooking in the world right 
here. Especially coffee and fish. Do they know 
how to cook fish in N’Yawlins? I’ll tell the world! 
Was a man up in Philly in a hotel there,—know 
Philly, Mr. La Grande? Best soup and ice-cream 
in the world; pepper-pot, they call the soup; don’t 
forget, if you go there,—I told him, I said, ‘Fish in 


JUD BURDEN TELLS THE WORLD 165 


the Atlantic; do you? Not for me. No, sir! 
Not in California, either. California for salads,— 
they make a melon-salad! Gosh-a-liberty! And 
such lettuce!—but the Gulf’s the place for fish and 
N’Yawlin’s is where they can cook it.’ And oys¬ 
ters! ’Course, you can get bully ones, too, from 
Chesapeake Bay; but they don’t know how to cook 
’em anywhere in the North. Stew! Lord! Slop ! 
After you’ve been here. I’m a Northerner myself 
and I hope I’m as good a booster as the next one. 
Ask me about corn beef and I’ll show you if I’m not. 
Chi’s the place for corn beef,—that’s where they can 
boil it soft and yet keep the strength in. Know 
Chicago, Mr. La Grande? I’ll give you an address 
where they boil the best beef in the world. Oh! I 
know they say New England for that. But not any. 
Only place in New England they can cook is Prov¬ 
idence. Fix the best broiled baby lobsters,—know 
how to cook ’em through without killing the flavor. 
Ever been to Providence, Mr. La Grande? Good 
town. Never ate any Northern fish good as those 
lobsters except—say, if you ever go to Seattle and 
want salmon! Now, that is a Northern fish that’s 
a bird. I know a place in Seattle—” 

Mr. La Grande tried to look impressed, passed 
his hand over his mouth. 

Elodi, on the porch with a book, pressed her 
handkerchief between her lips; her shoulders were 
shaking. 

When Landry came down the outside stairway 


i66 


COME HOME 


and joined her, she took his hand and led him on a 
run into a wild-tangled arbor of Virgin’s bower. 
There she laughed so heartily that the myriad 
flowers of the vine,—little yellow candles in snow- 
white stands,—shook as with a breeze. 

Landry laughed with her, not knowing why. 

“What relief!” she cried. “Evidently this Mon¬ 
sieur Burden likes fish; eh?” She laughed again. 
“Oh, out! I should say this man knows where one 
should eat. del! His map of the world, it is one 
large menu card. He has now crossed the conti¬ 
nent up and down, east to west, on his appetite. I 
suppose now he will pass the oceans; eh? Poor 
Monsieur La Grande ! He must lie like this”—she 
spread her hands horizontally,—“and escort this 
gourmand on his tour of the world, without escape.” 
She wiped her eyes. “But me, thank the saints, I 
have saved myself, just in time!” She laughed still 
harder. 

Landry shook her. “You be still! He’ll hear 
you yet. Better be practising self-control anyway. 
You have to dine with him, you know.” 

“Impossible! I shall sprain me the ankle first. 
Or maybe, in the presence of the food, he will give 
silent devotion. Eh? To be hope’!” 

“Never mind him. Sit here and talk to me 
awhile,” Landry said. She was pretty, sitting in 
one of the accidental windows of the arbor with the 
delicate-flowered tendrils of the vine between her 
dark head and the sunlight. It was no longer a 


JUD BURDEN TELLS THE WORLD 167 


bore, coming down here, since he’d begun chumming 
with Elodi. ‘T ve missed you like the dickens, 
Elodi.” 

Elodi dimpled. 

“Maybe that’s true,” she teased. “If yes, I have 
a surprise for you. Mrs. Thurston has invited me 
to be her house-guest in New Orleans. I am going 
for the Yacht Club dance. And to stay awhile af¬ 
ter. You like this idea?” 

A slight shade crossed Landry’s face, but it was 
gone before she could have read it. His attentions 
to Elodi were innocent chumship, of course; but he 
did not care to have Helen Jeffrey made aware of 
them just then. 

“Splendid!” he said. “Only I wish I had known 
it earlier. I’d have so enjoyed escorting you to the 
dance if you and Mrs. Thurston’d let me; but I’ve 
already accepted an invitation myself. The Jeff¬ 
reys are giving a dinner on their boat—” 

“Oh! That is all right,” said Elodi casually. 
“We have also a party.” But there were quick 
tears in her eyes. These flattered Landry. Sweet 
child! 

He tilted her chin upward in his hand, astonished 
that she let him; Elodi was generous only with her 
smiles. 

“Honey!” he said. “Are you sorry we can’t 
play together all the time? As if I wouldn’t come 
over to your gang every minute that I can! And 
I’ll call on you, of course,—” 


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It suddenly impressed Elodi that her usual rela¬ 
tionship with men was being reversed. She has¬ 
tened to restore it, “If I am not engaged, I shall be 
happy to see you. But dear Mrs. Thurston, she 
has many plans for me.” 

Landry laughed. “Some day,—I warn you, 
miss,—if you put on such airs with your pretty 
mouth, curl it up so, I may take a liberty.” 

“You are taking one now, by that speech,” she 
said, but dfrnpled again, not displeased. 

“You’ll make a hit. No girl in the city dances 
better,” he told her. 

“Oo—ee! All ’Cajans have dancing feet. We 
are born so. Men, too. You have seen Odrasse 
Guidry at a ball?” 

“I never notice men at a dance. And Guidry and 
I never hit it off well enough for me to stand around 
admiring him.” 

Elodi felt a slight resentment. “You don’t like 
Odrasse ?” 

“Oh! Not as bad as that. Just think him a 
rube.” 

“Rube? Qu’est-ce-que-c } est, a rubef What 

you mean?” 

“Oh, sort o’ simple. Countrified, you know.” 

Elodi looked at him as severely as her soft eyes 
could. “You are a planter’s son, yourself, mon¬ 
sieur. And me,—a rubess, too, maybe!” 

“Oh, come, Elodi! You’re the sweetest thing 
extant, and I’m glad we’re planters.” He took her 


JUD BURDEN TELLS THE WORLD 169 


hand; she smiled forgivingly. “No objection to 
living in the country,—if you have to. It’s being 
countrified that makes Odrasse—what I said.” 

“Odrasse is my friend. If you please!” 

“So—I—see!” He lifted his brows. “Didn’t 
know it meant anything to you, Elodi.” 

“How you mean—‘meant anything’? What you 
infer 4 because I will not have my old friends crit- 

• * } OH 

lcize r 

Landry hated to be put in the wrong, could not 
conceive of himself as an offender, was not generous 
enough to assume blame readily. 

“Much ado about rien-du-tout ; isn’t it? You 
like Odrasse; I don’t—very much. What boots 
it?” 

Elodi, whose swains had been brought up in the 
tradition, “The ladies are always right,” felt a 
slight shock at this. 

“But you should not infer—” 

“Oh, I wasn’t inferring anything. All your im¬ 
agination, child. Please don’t scold.” 

“No, Landry! Let my hand rest, please! 
Infer what you choose. If Odrasse is a rube, me 
too, I am one. We are friends. Rubes together. 
I am as moch countrified as Odrasse.” 

“Well, if you want to quarrel, my dear, suit your¬ 
self. I suppose you know what it’s all about.” 

Landry sat on the opposite side of the arbor, 
occasionally half-smiling at her. Elodi felt that 
she was showing more temper than the incident war- 


COME HOME 


170 

ranted; but Landry should have been instantly 
sorry; should have said so. She took out her hand¬ 
kerchief, wiped her eyes. 

“Storm over?” Landry asked. 

She couldn’t help laughing. She liked him so 
much. He crossed over, put his arm along the 
back of her bench. 

“Aren’t we silly?’’ he whispered. 

She assented, sitting up quite straight but yet 
pleasantly conscious of his arm behind her. 

“Then say, ‘I’m sorry I was cross to poor Landry, 
w r ho is my slave,’ ” he cajoled her. 

“I’m sorry. And now, you say, too, ‘I’m sorry 
that I called Odrasse, the friend of Elodi, a 
rube.’ ’’ 

He couldn’t help teasing her; she was so naive, 
this pretty little country coquette. He dared to 
touch the lace frill on her shoulder. “I'm—sorry,” 
he began slowly. “I’m sorry that Odrasse is—the 
friend of Elodi. Is that it?” 

Her cheeks flamed. “/ apologized,” she said. 

“Em sorry that I made Elodi cross by telling her 
that her friend, Odrasse, is a—” 

Elodi rose, chin high, marched from the arbor 
with as grand an air of injured dignity as her rosy, 
round person could muster. 

Landry looked after her, smiling. Piquant, he 
thought. This situation had needed some spice. 
Ail the better; “making up” would be fun. 


JUD BURDEN TELLS THE WORLD 


171 


Now, for a less agreeable interview. He went 
in to join his father and Burden. 

Elodi would probably find his sister and that 
would keep Berne out of the way for awhile, too; a 
good thing. 

But Berne, returning, did not see Elodi, who had 
gone down to the bayou and walked along its hya¬ 
cinth-brocaded shore, gathering star-lilies and trying 
not to cry. 

Berne came in the rear door of the living-room, 
her gray work-blouse open at the throat, her sleeves 
rolled high, a bright blue covert-quill of a teal 
duck,—picked up at the edge of the rice-field,—stick¬ 
ing, Indian fashion, in one of her swinging braids of 
hair. She was startled at seeing a stranger, but 
scarcely more so than the visitor was at her appear¬ 
ance. 

“That’s the sharp little lady that had the pistol,” 
he thought. “Gosh-a-liberty! They didn’t tell me 
she was such a kid; or such a good-looker! Red¬ 
heads always lucky for me, though. No need to 
be afraid of a kid like her.” 

This blustering Burden was never unmindful of 
ladies’ charms. He could not be, for he was in the 
millinery business; but, besides, he liked “the girls.” 
And they thought him a “good sort of guy.” He 
enjoyed popularity; the men he “ran with” liked 
him, too. He always wanted everybody to have 
a good time; let everybody “step right in”; it was 


172 


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“on him.” That was Jud Burden, a “good feller,” 
a “mixer,” a “spender.” He was a law-breaker; 
but he never broke any “real law.” Just one he 
considered “tommyrot,”—the law protecting plum¬ 
age. “Mush! Sentiment! A lot of darn-fool 
slushiment! That’s what I call this fuss about 
birds,” he’d say. “Gosh-a-liberty! What better 
use can a bird serve than to set off some pretty 
woman? Specially when the girls will pay so well 
for it! Suppose we do kill off the species? 
There’ll always be other kinds. Just have to 
change the style; that’s all.” 

Before the good laws protecting them had been 
introduced, the beautiful snowy herons had all but 
gone fron Louisiana; their ethereal recurved plum¬ 
age gracing,—or, better, disgracing,—hats and 
coiffures of women. And in the same cause, the 
angelic “great whites” had all been massacred. 
For a long time, therefore, this field had not been 
worth Burden's thought. But, now, through Mr. 
Ned’s pioneer haven, the government preserves and 
private sanctuaries, and the valiant activities of the 
Audubon Society, and through new laws and an 
effective and alert Department of Conservation, the 
birds had found that the protection was real; and 
were retaking their old homes like a banished people 
returning to the motherland. 

As long as beauty and vanity are inseparables, 
greed will make it a trio. Through subterranean 
meannesses, the long, prehensile claws of those who 


JUD BURDEN TELLS THE WORLD 173 


catered to the weakness of women were reaching 
into such heronries as had not had sufficient protec¬ 
tion. Where wardens were few or lacking, or 
heronries remote, lawbreakers were “taking a 
chance,” slaughtering. 

“The stricter the law,” said Burden, “the higher 
the price of plumes. So we get ours going and 
coming.” 

While Burden was in New Orleans for awhile, 
breaking a business journey to Venezuela,—that 
chief slaughter-house of herons,—Prowler had 
chanced to meet him in the street. 

This encounter was a great piece of luck for the 
Prowler, who had hunted herons in the Florida 
swamps, as a private enterprise, and had once or 
twice sold to Burden, on that milliner’s visits to the 
beaches, a small illegal batch or two. 

“Yes, sir,” he told him eagerly, when he had 
inveigled him into a little brick-floored coffee-house, 
dark behind green blinds, on a quiet brick-floored 
alley. “Yes, sir. I went down there thinking 
maybe I could get a-hold of a few plumes, here and 
there, to sell to some ladies I know in the business, 
that I sell ’em to by mail sometimes. Didn’t expect 
to get many, you understand. But—wait—till—I 
—tell—you!” 

Hiding his purpose he had appeared in the parish, 
he told him, as a migratory laborer,—for he was 
jetsam and could do a little of everything as he 
floated along. He had heard there were “cranes” 


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in the Big Woods around Vermilion Bayou. He 
had thought it a chance heronry,—away off there 
so deep in the swamp, accidental and unknown,— 
until Berne’s zeal had become an obstacle to him. 

“Then I knew there was something worth getting 
at, and I heard about her and how batty she was 
about birds.” 

He did not tell Burden of Mr. La Grande and 
the treasure hunt; that was another story and the 
Prowler’s private concern. 

But he said that, after some difficulty,—much 
exaggerated in the telling,—he had located Berne’s 
bird village. 

“Six hundred nests, at least, or damme for telling 
it! If you’ll have a car ready, and somebody, so 
we can make a get-away with ’em, and if you’ll 
stake me along meanwhile, I can fix a good day 
when nobody’s around,—it’s far from anywhere; 
no need for anybody to go in them woods and 
nobody does go, scarcely,—I’ll pull it off. And I 
tell you we’ve picked up somethin’!’’ 

So it was agreed. But Burden had small hope 
of Prowler’s “getting them out” under Berne’s 
watchful eye; for, ignorant of the treasure-search, 
he did not know of that double-barreled scheme by 
which the Prowler hoped to bring about seclusion 
for both of his projects at once. 

Nevertheless, Burden, who prided himself on 
“never missing a trick,” had sent one of his asso¬ 
ciates down to “look things over,” to see what the 


JUD BURDEN TELLS THE WORLD 175 


prospects were and whether there might not be an 
opportunity of buying that “neck of swamp,”—if it 
didn’t cost much,—so that, even if they did not get 
the birds this year; maybe next! 

This associate it was who had heard, by chance, 
Landry’s conversation with the Judge in the rail¬ 
road station that woful morning, and had had 
the shrewdness to profit by it. Now it looked as 
if they could own that heronry and, owning it, keep 
out intruders. No need to tell the Prowler until 
they had it! 

The profits might not be large, as Burden’s 
profits went; but the thing had a spice for him. 
ITe liked difficulties; he was vain, wanted to win. 

Now Landry was playing into his hand. 

“Father,” he said, introducing the project at a 
sign from Burden. “Mr. Burden’s visit to us is 
not entirely a social one.” 

“Always combine business and pleasure,—my 
motto! Why not? That’s life; isn’t it? Busi¬ 
ness and pleasure. Take ’em both together, I say; 
get double portion of both. Standing on ceremony 
doesn’t get you anything. That’s my idea, Miss 
La Grande. Am I right or am I wrong?” 

Berne regarded him, felt a tingling warning; as 
the blue herons must feel, she thought, when they 
lifted their neck-feathers at the premonition of a 
danger. 

Landry explained, “Mr. Burden is interested in 
a new method,—an untried method, really,—of get- 


176 


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ting lumber out of the swamp-land, Father; and 
before he invests in it .he wants to buy a piece of 
swamp where the conditions are the worst possible, 
—sort of experiment station. So he’d like to buy 
from us a slice of the Big Woods.” 

“Willing to pay well for it,—considering what it 
is,—just idle swamp,” said Burden. “Always 
ready to pay for what I want. You can have 
strawberries in December if you pay for ’em,— 
won’t be much good though.” He laughed. “Of 
course, I don’t want much land,—just a sliver.” 

“How did you know about the conditions in our 
woods, Mr. Burden?” asked Berne. “Have you 
ever been here before?” 

“Smart little business head, I’ll tell the world! 
No. Just had some other business with your 
brother,—’bout seme other investments and we got 
to talking about this place and it sounded right to 
me. So I sent an expert down to see it and he says 
it’s just the place to try the thing out on,—at least 
part of it is.” 

“Do you know which part Mr. Burden means?” 
Mr. La Grande asked his son. 

“Yes, sir. Part we can spare best. Over to¬ 
wards Guidry’s,—the strip toward Pool of the 
Moon.” 

Berne rose angrily to her feet; her father sat up¬ 
right on the couch. Both were white as wax. 

“The treasure! It is known!” Mr. La Grande 
thought. 


JUD BURDEN TELLS THE WORLD 177 

“Plumes!” thought Berne. 

Neither believed in the timber project. For the 
first time, Berne was thankful for her father’s 
treasure hunt; it would keep him from this sale. 

So, as Mr. Burden has been very good to me,— 
a valuable client,—of course, I told him I knew you 
would—” 

Mr. La Grande interrupted him, rather gaspingly. 

‘I regret disobliging a fr—an associate of my son, 

s * r » and you, too, Landry;—but—I regret—I can¬ 
not sell.” 

“Cannot! Why?” Landry cried. “Why can’t 
you?” 

Berne went to her father, stood behind him, her 
hand on his shoulder. 

“Oh!” Landry exclaimed, struggling for com¬ 
posure. “It’s because Camille wants it to play with. 
Those birds! Is that it? Well, I didn’t think, sir, 
you’d go as f&r as—” 

Burden thought it prudent to seize the opportun¬ 
ity for camouflage. 

“Birds?” he asked. “Why, surely there must be 
birds in all parts of the woods; not only this. If 
there’s anything there’s enough of around here, it’s 
perches for sparrers; I’ll tell the world.” 

“I regret, sir,” Mr. La Grande repeated. “That 
strip is not for sale.” 

Burden thought he understood the situation. 
This gentleman wasn’t as slow as he looked; he was 
holding out for a price. Well, he couldn’t offer 


i / 8 


COME HOME 


much; not feathers enough to be worth it; and be¬ 
sides, they might get suspicious,—just a narrow slice 
of swamp! But he’d “raise the ante” a little. He 
was beginning to want this now; opposition always 
made him stubborn. The price he named was high 
enough to move Mr. La Grande to astonishment and 
even Berne could not prevent a sudden vision of 
ready cash. 

Seeing this effect, Burden said to Landry, “I’ll 
go out in the yard and let you people talk it over. 
Can’t expect Mr. La Grande to grab it on the fly, 
like that. Come on; show me a good place to loaf. 
Got a hammock?” He drew forth a huge cigar 
wrapped in gilt paper like a candy. 

Landry gave him a magazine and led him toward 
a hammock; out of hearing. 

Once outdoors, Burden lost his geniality. His 
heavy face grew menacing. 

“Look here, young fellow,” he said. “You see 
that he comes across. You said he would. I leave 
it to you to make good. That’s me. That’s Jud 
Burden. I do what I say I can do and I expect the 
other fellow to go me one better. No alibi is going 
to go with me. You get me that land. I didn’t 
come down here for the trip, you know.” 

“I’ll try to persuade—” 

“Don’t try. Do it.” 

As soon as Burden and Landry had gone, Mr. 
La Grande turned to Berne, in terrible anxiety. 


JUD BURDEN TELLS THE WORLD 179 


“Do you think—he knows? For, my dear, I didn’t 
tell you. We have found the place 1” He lowered 
his voice. “All the landmarks, beyond a doubt, 
—nearly. It is Pool o’ the Moon. A strange coin¬ 
cidence, his wanting that. Nonsense, what he says 
about getting timber! Any other place would do as 
well as this. And a wild idea anyway! And offer¬ 
ing so fair a price! Oh, do you think, my child—” 

“No, Commodore. He’s not after treasure. 
That man’s after plumes. How could he kno\i 
about Marcel Narcisse,—he, a Northerner in New 
Orleans!’’ 

Mr. La Grande’s face cleared with immense re¬ 
lief. “Why,—after all,—I don’t suppose he could. 
I’m abnormally excited about it. No; of course, 
he couldn’t.” After a moment’s silence. “Still, 
I’ll take no chances. If I were only sure two weeks 
would be long enough for us to find it, I could offer 
the place to him in three or four. Wonder if he’d 
wait a month or so, on reasonable assurance, some 
shaving of the price. It would mean a lot, 
daughter.” 

“Commodore! My birds!” 

“We’ll look into it first, dear. Probably you’re 
fighting shadows, too. Maybe he has some wild 
scheme about getting out swamp timber. I’m not 
the only over-credulous person on earth.” He 
smiled at her, patted her hand. 

“Just now you said it was nonsense.” 



i8o 


COME HOME 


“Well,—I was frightened, as you are now. It 
does sound queer. We’ll look into it well, Fiam- 
metta. See if he’ll wait. And meanwhile—” 

“If he will not wait,” Berne said. “I shall know 
he is after the egrets. For in three weeks it will be 
too late for the best plumage. Father dear, it’s 
only because of your plan that I don’t ask the 
authorities. If you betray my birds to—” 

“Child! Child! There you have it. It’s against 
the law to kill herons. He wouldn’t dare, even if 
he did own the swamp. Don’t let your anxiety 
blind you, dear.” 

“I’ll inform Mr. Ned and have wardens watch 
that place day and night, treasure or no treasure, if 
I think he’s after plumes,” she continued. 

“Flame! My dear! You would threaten—” 
“Then be sure, dear, or don’t sell.” 

Landry entered, strode to his sister. “So that’s 
it? I heard that, ‘Don’t sell.’ Look here, Ca¬ 
mille ; you’ve stood in my way long enough. Always 
against what’s for my good!” 

“You can’t think that!” 

“Well,” he had the grace to pause, seeing his 
sister’s face. “Well—no. But, now, listen. This 
man’s got me in his grip like that . He can ruin me, 
if he wants to. Maybe you’ll have to sacrifice the 
whole place,—unless you’d let me go under, hard . 
Worse than—well! So now you know. And if 
you’d let a little piece of swamp timber do it, 
Camille, I’ll—” 


JUD BURDEN TELLS THE WORLD 181 


A small, sturdy figure that had stood a few mo¬ 
ments unnoticed in the doorway, ran between them. 

‘ A ou’ll not do anything to my sister,” Peter said. 
“Not while I’m here, you won’t.” His fists were 
doubled. 

Landry and his father couldn’t help laughing. 
But Berne knelt and put her head on Peter’s shoul¬ 
der, her arms about him. 

“What’s he doing to you, Sis?” 

“Nothing, dearest. Just talking. It’s all right. 
Honest.” 

“Oh! Then, ’scuse me, Lan.” But he glared 
at his big brother, not quite convinced. 

Through the rear door they saw Elodi approach¬ 
ing with an armful of star-lilies and eyes not 
entirely free from the trace of tears. They pulled 
themselves together. 

The man in the hammock was thinking. He 
mustn’t show too much eagerness. He must look 
out. That girl was smart as a whip. Better 
let them think he didn’t care and, meanwhile, put 
the screws on Landry. He was the weak sister, all 
right. This game was getting to be fun. Looked 
like they were “on,” or why didn’t they grab his 
offer right off? He’d better watch his step. After 
all, maybe he could do the thing the way he’d first 
planned, through the Prowler. But too much 
eagerness now would “queer the whole business.” 

Beetee came towards him, conducting a young 
man with a telegram. 


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“Yonder’s de North gentleman; yonder in de 
hammock,” she said to Borel. “You better \tmme 
hand him de dispatch, howsomever; you ain’t quite 
steady on yo’ steppers, Mist’ Borel. You walks 
like you has been lappin’ up somethin’ mo’ dizzy 
dan righteous.” 

But Borel pushed her aside, swayed before 
Burden. 

“Dis-hyere man done fotched you a dispatch 
f’um de station,” Beetee announced and went back 
to the fig-tree, loudly grunting disgust at Borel’s 
condition, keeping the men in sight. 

It was not a true “dispatch,” but a note from 
Prowler, shrewdly written on telegraph paper, ask¬ 
ing for an explanation of Burden’s presence. As 
he read it, Borel waited, drunkenly regarding 
him. 

Burden wrote on the space below, bidding the 
Prowler go right on with his work and wait for or¬ 
ders from town as usual. He threw Borel a coin. 

“Now, beat it,” he said. 

“Are you the boss?” Borel asked, swaying. 

“Yes.” The man grinned. “Yes; I am. I’ll 
say I am. Beat it.” 

“ Immediatement . When do we dig?” 

“Dig? Oh, run along; you’re drunk. Go!” 

“Oh! Monsieur can talk to me. I’m in on this 
also; me. He thought he could prevent me to 
know, but I know well what's buried down yonder at 
this Pool o’ the Moon. Si! Si/ I’m goin’ get 


JUD BURDEN TELLS THE WORLD 183 

my part, you bet. Oo—ee—yes! I’m wise guy; 
me.” 

“Your part of what? What are you talking 
a’bout? What do you mean,—‘buried’?” 

“Oh! You want fool me too; eh? Well, no! 
Not so, I think. I heard Monsieur La Grande 
tell his daughter all about it. All! Um-m! I’m 
lucky boy; me. Up in a tree I was. I heard, me, 
what they goin’ do together, Monsieur La Grande 
and,”—he lowered his voice and pointed a shaky 
finger at the telegraph-paper note,—“and him.” 

Burden narrowed his ferret’s eyes at him. 

“Hum!” he said. “Give me back that note of 
mine.” He jammed the yellow paper in his pocket. 
“Go down that road slowly, I’ll come after you in a 
minute. I want to talk to you.” 

“Sure pop? Monsieur will come?” 

“Sure. Right after you.” 

He whistled to Beetee in the fig-tree. 

“Yassah! Hyere’s me,” coming on a run. 

“If they ask for me, I’m taking a walk down the 
road a way. Tell 'em not to worry. I’m too big 
to get lost.” 

“Couldn’t git lost in de dark with such look-at-me 
clothes on! Laws£<?/” Beetee mumbled admir¬ 
ingly. “Dat white gentleman certainly do do his- 
self up like he loves to shine! But he ain’t exac’ly 
quality-lookin’.” Then she giggled. “Ain’t nothin’ 
so scrumgeous went down dat road since Black 
Kasper come tryin’ to kiss Singsie, in his new green 


184 


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/ 


suit, and she throwed de kettle o’ stewed tomatoes 
on him. Funny,—him to go traipsin’ off by hisself 
dat-a-way! Well, mind my business! ’Taint none 
of my funeral. Keep away f’um other folks’ fun¬ 
erals; ’cause you cayn’t keep away f’um yo’ own!” 

When Burden returned, looking thoughtful, 
Berne was amusing Elodi; Landry, in earnest talk 
with his father. 

He came in breezily and was soon engaged in 
booming banter with Elodi, who devoted herself to 
him, partly to punish Landry and partly to draw 
forth the funniest conversational method she had 
ever heard. 

He announced in his big voice, “I’m having a 
good time at your party, with this little lady. Some 
little wild-rose; I’ll tell the world.” 

“Is that why he speaks so loud?” Elodi won¬ 
dered. “In order to inform the world?” 

“Yessir!” he continued. “Mighty glad I came. 
And, say, Mr. La Grande! That matter we were 
talking about awhile back,—don’t let it bother you 
any. If you don’t want to do it,—why, it doesn’t 
matter much. I know I seemed mighty keen on it. 
But I’m a queer sort of a duck.” Elodi giggled. 
“She thinks I’m more like an ostrich—that it? 
Well, ’s I was saying, I’m funny that way. Take 
notions and want what I want when I want it. Like 
a woman.” Lie guffawed. “And they get what 
they want; I'll tell the world. But don’t let it spoil 
this party any. ’S all right, anyway it works out.” 


JUD BURDEN TELLS THE WORLD 1S5 


“Would you consider it later, perhaps?” his host 
ventured. 

“Sure. Sure. Any old time.” 

Mr. La Grande breathed in relief and shot a 
glance of reassurance at Landry, another at his 
daughter. 

But Landry was far from feeling reassured. He 
had received another glance simultaneously, a cut¬ 
ting side-blow from the sharp eyes of the speaker. 

As for Berne, she soon went to the telephone and 
was heard,—for any one speaking there could be 
clearly heard throughout the ground floor of the old 
house,—to her father’s and brother’s astonishment, 
giving Martin Pinckney in New Orleans a message 
they knew would delight the Mater. 

“Can you come down with my mother tomorrow, 
Martin? Yes; I should, very much. Yes; it is, 
highly. No I thank you, Martin. I was sure that 
you would.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE CROWN OF CYPRESS 

B ERNE awoke next day to find Singsie beside 
her bed with the early morning coffee, in¬ 
stead of Tiny, who usually brought it. As 
Berne drank it, Singsie drew a chair close and sat 
down beside her with an anxious expression. Berne 
patted her arm and asked, “Worried, Singsie? 
What is it?” 

“Not exac’ly worried, Missy. Just sort o’ con¬ 
siderate. Miss Berne, honey, you knows dat no- 
’count Reverend dat’s three widows?” 

“Three times a widower? Jury?” 

“Yas’m. Dat’s him. Reverend Jury.” 

“Been courting you again, Singsie?” 

“Now, you go along, honey! I ain’t lookin’ at 
him. Needn’t to make eyes at me. Better take 
dem eyes and send ’em up to God. I sho’ ain’t got 
no ambitions to have any man be a widow 7 de fourth 
time on my account. No’m, Missy. I ain’t studyin’ 
about dat Reverend. But he come’ around to me- 
and-ma-Maw’s cabin last night, pesterin’ me and 
eatin’ hog-and-greens like de church was about to 
stop his rations. And he say he done met dis-hyere 

friend of Mist’ Landry’s,” ^he lowered her voice. 

186 


THE CROWN OF CYPRESS 


187 


“Mr. Burden?” 

“Shouldn’t wonder. Met him yestiddy in de 
grass-road over yonder, talkin’ right mysterious with 
dat white trash, Borel f’um de Salt Mine. I kind 
o’ thought you’d want to know, Missy. Lemme 
pour you some mo’ coffee.” 

“How did he come to know Borel?” Berne 
asked and learned of the telegram Beetee had seen 
Borel bring to him. 

It seemed strange that Borel had been entrusted 
with the delivery of a telegram; he had never been 
before; did not even live in Cureville, and certainly 
was not blessed with the confidence of his neighbors. 
And why had he been talking to Burden afterwards? 
Berne felt that perhaps her suspicions were too 
alert; nevertheless, she would look into this. 

“Tell Uncle Hope to have my horse ready,” she 
said. 

She would go to the telegraph office in Cure¬ 
ville. 

“I hates to pester you, Missy. Dat old Hope, he 
fills you full enough with complaints and trimblena- 
tions, let alone me to help him. Now, lay down and 
git vou a li’l mo’ rest. Reckon it’ll rain soon, Miss 
Berne?” 

“I hope so, Singsie. The streams are pretty 
low.” 

“Well, it’ll rain. Don’t worry. It’s bound to 
rain. Always do, sooner or later. De Good Lawd, 
He’ll see to it when He gits around to it. I ain’t 


i88 


COME HOME 


never noticed dat worryin’ hurried Him any. 
Time enough yet.” 

“Thank you. I’m coming right down. Please 
have my breakfast ready. And explain to Miss 
Elodi, when she comes down, that I’ll be back soon. 
She’ll find a good new book on the window seat. 
And get her the caramels from my mother’s table.” 

Uncle Hope helped her mount her horse. 
“Gwine have dat pump fixed today, Miss Berne? 
Dat no-good gasoline tractor? Onestide is ’most 
dead, ’twixt de misery in he side and dat up-actin’ 
pump.” 

“Yes, Uncle Hope. Mr. Jonas is helping again. 
But if it doesn’t rain soon, I’m afraid there won’t 
be anything to pump but brine.” 

“Don’t talk like dat!” old Hope exclaimed. 
“Let’s don’t run out to call in trouble. Trouble 
sho’ to wake up when he’s called. Dat’s what de 
old folks say. Missy,—” he hesitated. 

“Yes, Uncle Hope?” 

“I remembers yo’ Grandpere, back yonder befo’ 
we was free. I was just a pickaninny, me; but right 
• now he come back to ma mind just as plain!” 

Berne waited. 

“Well, Missy! He was sort of quiet and stiddy 
and still spoken and—and—slim—and—red¬ 
headed. And nothin’ never downed him, Missy. 
Nobody never seen dat man down-casted fo’ nothin ’. 
Done kept up heart no matter what confronted to 


THE CROWN OF CYPRESS 


189 


him. And he always won out in de end. All de 
time! Yas, Lawdy! Things always come right in 
de end fo’ Marster Achille. He sot on his horse 
just de very way I sees you sittin’ now. Never gave 
up—” 

“Thanks, Uncle Hope.” 

Hope’s old eyes sparkled to see that she under¬ 
stood him. “Po’ chile!” he said as he watched her 
out of sight. “I sho’ly wish she could be just a li’l 
missy fo’ a spell. Huh! ‘De best dog seldom gits 
de best bone,’—as de old folks’ proverb say.’ ” 

At the station in Cureville they told Berne,— 
showing a neighborly curiosity as to why she wanted 
to know,—that no telegram had arrived for Mr. 
Burden on the preceding day, but that he had sent 
one to the city. 

“This young scamp, Borel Veriot, he passed in 
that dispatch yesterday. He workin’ for you now, 
Miss Berenicia? Oh! ’Cause they say he pass 
’most every day to lie Imaginaire. Hardly ever 
workin’ in Salt Mine any more. And his house, 
where he lives, that is very far from your place; 
yes? Good thing you don’t employ that Borel, 
Miss Berenicia. He poach, he drink, he gamble. 
No good, that boy.—You say quoi?” 

Berne had to use tact to forestall the friendly in¬ 
quisitiveness. As finesse was never her talent, she 
discovered little. But that dispatch was counter¬ 
feit ! 


190 


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She set out to locate Borel. He was still around 
Cureville, she learned, had been seen, some dis¬ 
tance away in the direction of the ferry. 

So, down the grass-floored road between the 
moss-hung forests and across the farm-lands, she 
rode off to find him. 

There were small gray clouds in the distance to 
the south, over the bay, with a touch of plumbago- 
blue in them that heartened her. Unless they blew 
out to sea, it might rain. 

She looked anxiously at the rice fields, now like 
soft green lawns, except where the wind rippled 
them, revealing their floor of blue water. It was 
low. Too low. The pool-lagoons where no rice 
stood were thin as tinfoil; the cardinals flying over 
them were reflected as in shallow mirrors. 

The shovel-men, walking the little dikes, had to 
use skill now and vigilance, to save the rice-crop and 
conserve the water. Poor Onestide, with his rheu¬ 
matism ! 

She met the winding bayou everywhere and never 
failed to observe how low it ran among the feathery 
reeds. 

“Well, let’s not ‘call in trouble’!’’ At least there 
was no trace yet about its borders of the blue-topped 
crab, the little brine-dwelling fish that is the first 
signal of salt in the stream. 

At last, a turn in the road brought her to the 
ferry over the canal at its broadest, where stood 
the cotton gin of Gertrude Plantation, a little white 


THE CROWN OF CYPRESS 


191 


house and store, and, across the stream, a tiny church 
seemingly alone in the prairie. 

A crippled black ferryman, who spoke only 
“French,” waved an unsmiling greeting, and out of 
the storekeeper’s house ran a slender, dark young 
matron, all welcome. 

“Oh, ma chere! But how I am glad! Pass in 
the house. Oh, but yes! Coffee? A glass milk?” 

“Bonjour, Noalie. How is the little Hamp¬ 
shire ?” 

“My pig? He is no more little, that black- 
with-white Hampshire pig. Fie is a nuisance yet. 
Obar, he want kill him for my fete-day. But I will 
not. ‘No,’ I say. ‘I want my pig. I rather my 
pig-’ ” 

Laughing, she led her guest into the cool interior 
of the blue-painted sitting-room off the store, and 
left her there with the white-quilted bed and white- 
covered mantel-piece and the side-board full of col¬ 
ored glass-ware, the flowering begonia in the blue 
fireplace, the strip of spotless matting, the sacred 
lithographs and the “pretty” ones and, over the 
chimney-piece, the pictured cross borne by angels 
and inscribed with the names of Leole and Lionet 
and Mathurin and the other sisters and brothers of 
Noalie who had died in infancy. 

It was all as fresh and sweet as if Noalie had 
guests every day, instead of very rarely. 

“They are good nest-makers, Noalie and Obar,” 
Berne thought, watching her hostess in the kitchen 


192 


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and the little son at her feet impeding her progress. 
“ ’Way off here,—but a nest! Oh, Dan, my dear, 
my dear, are you going to cost me my nest?” She 
sighed. 

Then she started. That coat on the nail in the 
corner,—surely it was Dan Ba rde's! 

She called out, asking Noalie. 

“Yes. He is staying here tonight. He is now 
out on the canal, or in the swamp; went off with 
Caleb, the fisherman. He is going stay with me 
and Obar tonight; maybe more nights. He say’ he 
like’ here very much.” 

Dan liked it here very much? He could have 
joined the fisherman anywhere; better, indeed, on 
the bayou than here. But it was not for her to in¬ 
vestigate Daniel’s whims; she had come to inquire 
about Borel. 

“Borel Veriot? Mr. Barde, he want’ find him, 
too. That’s fonny. Oh, yes, chere; he goes often 
in the woods, this Borel, with a strangerman. I 
don’t know, me, what they do. Tiens! I suspect 
they go for gin in some cabin. But— sais-pas! 
You like the milk? Maybe you rather sasparill'? 
lou think he go for some mischief, chere?” 

“Hope not, Noalie. I like to know what goes on 
on Imaginaire, and in our woods. Do they go into 
our woods?” 

“And Guidry’s. Obar, he say’ it.” 

“Noalie, I suppose it’s all right. But if I should 


THE CROWN OF CYPRESS 


193 


need Obar in a hurry,—to put anybody off, for in¬ 
stance,—he’d come?” 

“But for certain!” proudly. “My Obar he is 
not afraid for any one, vons savez. He is big man. 
One night some tramp’ try to get in the cotton- 
gin—” 

“Yes. I heard about it. It was splendid. 
And, Noalie, I’d just as lief not have anybody know 
I asked you that.” 

“Bien!” Then very sweetly, “Oh, chere! I 
like very much to help you, Camille Berenicia,—me 
and Obar and even the baby and the pig!” She 
laughed. 

“I know it, dear. Did you see Borel today? 
Do you know where he is?” 

“I think he go in the swamp. Obar say’ it. 
You can’t rest here some?” rather wistfully. It 
was often lonely at the ferry. 

“I’m coming soon for a regular long visit. But 
it’s business today. Td much rather go craw-fishing 
with you. Au ’voir, Noalie!” 

“’Voir Camille Berenicia!” She waved her 
own hand and the baby’s after Berne, as she rode 
past and turned her horse into the wild and winding 
road that led toward the swamp forest and L’Ecu 
des Cypres, the Cypress Crown Pool. 

Berne marvelled that Daniel could be looking for 
Borel. Noalie must be mistaken. 

But Daniel had been looking for Borel. He had 


194 


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undertaken Odrasse's mission less than half believ¬ 
ing it necessary. But yesterday’s vigil had made 
him sure that Berne and her birds,—or, perhaps, 
more than the birds,—did need guarding. There 
was some mystery here, some menace. He had 
seen and heard strange men and hints of strange 
plans. Today he returned to his “blind” as keenly 
excited as Odrasse himself. 

With his pipe, a magazine and a pocketful of 
chocolate, he waited on Odrasse’s platform at the 
edge of the Cypress Pool. 

Your cypress is a tree of temperament; he can be 
fragile, coy, blithe and springlike, or stately and re¬ 
served; he can be gay or somber, open or myste¬ 
rious, bright or dark, even awful,—a very poet of 
trees, taking his tone from his environment, inter¬ 
preting and intensifying the life about him. 

Daniel was learning the tragic aspect of the tree. 
Now he sat in the dark heart of the swampwood. 
His platform was in a thicket so dense that he 
could not have seen a person five feet beyond it. 
The owls hooting close at hand could not be seen,— 
to him they were disembodied voices; and the calls 
of the song-birds were elfin and far. The close-set 
trees, cypress and tupelo and black-enameled mag¬ 
nolia, rose to titanic heights in whispering silence. 
Magnificent tangles of vines covered these black- 
green towers or spanned them into giant screens, 
majestic canopies, tremendous banners; and eerie 


THE CROWN OF CYPRESS 


195 


moss swung miles of crepe that fell in ghostlike 
masses to low branches and the underbrush. The 
floor of the marsh moved eternally in an uncertain, 
sibilant rhythm. Sculptured stumps of fallen trees 
protruded through the tremulous water like spires 
and domes of sunken cathedrals. Snakes slid into 
the crevices. 

Far off he heard the cry of a “cat.” About him 
blew the intoxicating breath of some hidden flower. 

Sun-spots and streaks penetrated the gloom,— 
wavering torches or blinding headlights,—and made 
the darkness deeper. 

But the little open lake itself was bright. Shafts 
of actual sunlight fell upon the Crown of Cypress 
Pool. 

To this one watery clearing came the hosts of 
egrets. In the thicket all about were their great 
nests of twigs; and now every nest was a home; in 
every one the new-born birds were tended. 

Happiness had made their parents’ feathers beau¬ 
tiful; the birds still wore their gladsome nuptial 
plumes; no wedding finery in all the world surpasses 
this in ecstatic purity. 

It is the fidelity of these parents to their young 
that often becomes their doom. If hunters came 
for the herons while they were merely lovers, the 
first assault would drive the birds far away. But 
egrets will not desert their helpless young; they keep 
returning to the nest, making themselves easy tar- 


196 


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gets; so the plume-hunters come when the babies do. 
That is why the egrets are destroyed,—through 
their loyalty and their love. 

Dan, watching the life of the hundreds of nests, 
hour by hour, in this quiet place, was learning. He 
began to understand what Berne had meant. 
Every creature about him,—the spider, the ant,— 
w r as making safe its home. The air was soft with 
fans of wings all day long. Dan was young. His 
health was returning. He was in love. And 
everything around him was making safe its home. 
A flame was kindling. 

He was going to have a nest, too. He dared to 
dream it. 

Suddenly he laughed. Even in this tender mood 
of romance and dawning ambition, he laughed at 
the thought. If his mother had known to what she 
was sending him! After shielding him safely 
through girls of all nations, so that never the shaft 
of a bright eye pierced her guard! 

Poor little mother! He winced. But what a 
girl! 

To build a nest for her! 

Easy to dream! But where, how, when? Ask 
her to wait down here indefinitely, toiling and wor¬ 
rying, for the prospect of some day owning him? 
Scarcely. A pretty unsportsmanlike thing, though, 
to stay here just to trouble her. He’d clear out 
and—he grinned—collect twigs. Then, if he found 
he could build a nest, he’d come back, take his 


THE CROWN OF CYPRESS 


197 


chance. Would his red-top have spread her 
wings and flown by that time? Take a long day 
to gather twigs enough to build in the trees of lie 
Imaginaire! 

Well, he’d do it if he could. In the meantime, 
he wasn’t going to make love to her. Fair field! 

Suddenly he stopped dreaming, sat up, alert. 

The sound of a paddle! 

Was Borel, or were the other men he had seen 
yesterday returning? It was too early for Odrasse. 

He sat as still as a creature of the forest. 

The pirogue must be approaching behind him. 
He dared not look around for fear of betraying his 
presence. He heard the boat drawn up into the 
bushes. Not Odrasse ahead of time; Odrasse 
would have spoken. 

There was now a step along the path that led to 
his platform. The bushes behind him were pushed 
aside. 

He turned sharply. 

“Flame! My dear!” 

“Gai-Da!” Berne cried in astonishment. “What 
are you doing here?” as he rose to meet her. 

He looked at her a moment quizzically. “Keep¬ 
ing the nests safe, Flame.” 

“Oh!” 

A wave of joy swept over her; she grasped his 
hands, standing close to him. Then he kissed her, 
as inevitably and unthinkingly as the birds billed in 
their season. 


198 


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She drew away from him, without embarrass¬ 
ment, but her eyes full of tears. 

“Forgive me, Flame! I couldn’t—” he cried; 
what a travesty, his resolution of that moment! 

“It’s all right, Da. I understand. It’s no mat¬ 
ter. Why need it matter? I'm glad. We shall 
always have—this. And it’s over.” 

Berne could not pose, play a role, even to herself. 
It would not have done, this kiss, if it had been in¬ 
tended, planned for. But it had happened of it¬ 
self. They had it. She was glad. 

She still spoke a little pantingly; her cheeks 
were still flaming; she asked, “Why did you come 
here? How did you know? Odrasse?” 

“Flame! I cannot,—I can’t just pass this thing 
by, like that.” 

“It is by, Da.” 

“No. I haven’t your self-control. Or maybe I 
care more than you do.” 

Berne smiled. 

“But I’ve got to face this thing. Just now I 
swore I’d never bother you. And now!” 

“1 took you by surprise, Da. Never mind.” 

“No. I won't dodge. I won’t. Sit here. 
Let’s diagnose.” He tried to smile. 

They sat on the platform, spoke in low tones, 
though there was nobody but the birds to hear. 

“I love you, Flame. I never cared for any girl 
before enough to be disturbed by it. I know you’ll 
believe me.” 


THE CROWN OF CYPRESS 


199 


She nodded. She knew it was true. 

“Maybe I was too selfish to care. I’ve been 
having a look-see at myself out here,—complete sur¬ 
vey of a young dud! I’m not edified, Berenicia 
mia. Maybe I’ve been too selfish; but maybe I’ve 
just been—waiting. Does that seem fantastic to 
you, dear?” 

“No.” 

“Then there was the inhibition of my mother. 
She’s very young and pretty, even now—” 

“Like mine.” 

“Yes. My father was very much older and she 
was left a girl-widow, with me. We both liked to 
play. Couple o’ kids. Together all the time. 
Lots of men wanted her and I used to be cruelly 
jealous for fear she’d marry. She knew it and sort 
of played it up—Oh, innocently!—to make me love 
her more.” 

“I know. Mater flirts with Lan and Pete.” 

“Well, I nearly died of it. One time especially. 
I adored her. And she never did marry and pretty 
soon the tables were turned and what I used to feel 
about her I think she feels about me. So I played 
with all the girls, but didn’t—specialize. But I’m 
not naturally a ‘coupler’ anyway, so it was never a 
sacrifice. Maybe that’s why I fall so hard now. 
I sho’ do love you, chile. I live in a sort of a glow 
of you. But—I’m no good to you. I couldn’t be 
any good to you,—here. The conditions. I m 
dying to beg you to marry me,—but! You wouldn't 


200 


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leave here,—try me? No,” as she shook her head. 
“I know you couldn’t, even if— I can’t do without 
you and I can’t have you. What shall I do, Flame? 
I’m not selfish enough to ask you to wait.” 

“I’d like you to be some good to yourself, Da. 
No need to ask me to—marry you,”—she was very 
white,—“because I wouldn’t,—dear. Even if you 
had money enough to release me from my job here, 
I wouldn’t, Da. I wouldn’t marry you.” 

He smiled ruefully. “Then I’m glad I kissed 
you. For I’ve had a kiss and you’ve lost nothing. 
You don’t really care for me, honey. And I reckon 
I ought to be glad.” 

“Oh! I do! Ever since we were little and used 
to lie out there on a meche in the savane and dream 
brigands.” Their eyes clung. “But I’m going to 
try to stop it.” 

“Flame! Yes; you’re right. Try. You don’t 
care, though, old girl. All right, say your say; and 
then I want to tell you something.” 

“I’m trying to stop it because I want a nest, Da. 
With a—nest-builder. Even after I had saved lie 
Imaginaire for Pete and fixed it so that Commodore 
wouldn’t have to worry all the time and try business 
ventures that fail, there’d surely be tasks in life. 
I want a man who’ll like lifting loads, like the work 
of it. Like to work. I shouldn’t feel the nest safe 
else. Just money wouldn’t do it.” 

“And you think I shouldn’t enjoy—all that?” 

She read his hurt. “You’re a boy Daniel. Some 


THE CROWN OF CYPRESS 


201 


ways, you’re younger than Odrasse. You’re a play¬ 
mate,—a dandy one I” She smiled. “Not only 
your mother’s; everybody’s playmate. Every¬ 
body likes you to be so. The fishermen are all 
crazy about you. Mme. Le Blanc even lets yo # u use 
her precious loom. You play their games. Even 
over in France, it was a gorgeous terrible game to 
you. That’s all right, dear, for a playmate—only. 
Some day, you’ll stop playing, with your mother, 
with your life, with—love. Maybe you’ll grow up 
and know— But you’re not well yet,” she said 
with quick compunction. “A lot of it is just that, 
perhaps. Anyway, you see, it’s not your coming 
that made me care. So don’t regret. I’ve always 
waited.” 

“It is a wonder you didn’t stop caring when the— 
play-boy came.” 

“But I didn’t, Da. So! I’ve been hurting your 
feelings!” She looked at him sorrowfully. 

He put out his hand, withdrew it quickly. 
“Yes’m; you do hurt. Like the dickens. But now, 
my lady, you listen to me. I’m not going to plead 
for myself. You’ve said—said you wouldn’t marry 
me nohow.” He smiled wryly. “So that’s that. 
It lets me out. No! I’ll be dashed if it does! 
But, anyhow r , it lets me out of your calculations— 
for the present. But, my dear,” his voice deep¬ 
ened. “Maybe I’m not—a man, a worker, a lifter 
and all that,” he tried not to let her see how sorely 
his pride was touched. “And maybe again I am, 


202 


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—but haven’t got my gait yet. But, Flame, old 
girl, this to you: You need a playmate more than 
anything. And I’ll be hanged if I don’t think the 
poor old, weary world does, too. Suppose it was 
a gorgeous game Over There,—we played it! And, 
by jinks, the stakes were high. Maybe that’s why 
we got through it pretty well,—because we did play 
the game, like a game. And I don’t mind saying, 
young lady, me love, that if you'd try looking at life 
a little bit more like that—as a game—it wouldn’t 
make it any harder for you.” 

“Dan,—are you angry?” 

“B’ilin’!” He smiled, but he was angry and she 
knew it. “B’ilin’ mad. But you had to say what 
you thought. So that's that. And it’s over. Go 
wed whom you will, what care I how fair she be, 
and weep no more, gentlemen!” He tossed his 
head back and returned to his characteristic happy 
manner. 

Berne’s heart was troubled. But he was right, 
—there was no more to be said. 

She squared her shoulders and went on in her 
calm, clear voice, “Now tell me why you are out 
here, please, Da, and what has happened.” 

Losing the strain of the situation little by little, 
he told her of his vigil, of how he had at first—he 
said it teasingly—just “played Odrasse’s game,” 
not believing in it. But those men had come, one of 
whom he now knew to be the youth, Borel; and he 
had heard them talking plainly of “doing” her 


THE CROWN OF CYPRESS 


203 


father. Perhaps Odrasse was right. It looked as 
if there were “something up.” 

“They said nothing about plumes?” 

Nothing that he’d heard. The men had gone far 
off in the direction of the dry woods, into that 
blackest blackness, “the place that would stump 
Dante,” he said; out of the swamp, he believed. 

“To the Pool o’ the Moon,” said Berne with re¬ 
lief. There were no birds in there and she did 
not believe in the treasure. But if they were try¬ 
ing to “do” her father! 

“You will watch, Dan, a little longer? It’s good 
of you. And let me know if anything happens?” 

“You and my boss, Odrasse. Why don’t you 
tell your Great Gentleman, Flame; if you think 
they’re after birds?” 

She flushed deeply. “Oh! How I want to tell 
Mr. Ned! But my father doesn’t believe they’re 
interested in the birds at all, and—he has—other 
reasons for not telling anybody.” 

Mr. La Grande was sensitive to the opinions of 
even the most trusted friends; they would think this 
the maddest of his visionary adventures. Wait 
until it succeeded! 

“I’m going to ask him to tell you and Odrasse 
his—reason, though. Your having heard what you 
did makes an opening.” He mfght not feel the 
same reluctance as to these youths, she thought, 
especially if they offered no opposing opinions. She 
would try to make him want their protection. He 


204 


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—or her birds—might need it. “He’ll need you, 
perhaps, even if there is no treasure there.” 

“Treasure! Buried treasure! Gee!” Daniel 
exclaimed, all excitement. He was a boy. Peter 
could not have been more thrilled. He laughed at 
himself, realizing it. 

Berne was sorry for the slip of tongue. “Oh, no! 
There isn’t any, really. I feel sure. I’d no right 
to tell you. I’d promised. So please forget it, 
Da.” 

“Forget it? Forget it? A treasure hunt! La- 
fitte, perhaps? When I was a boy they used to say— 
Oh, all right, dear. Don’t worry. I’ll try to 
forget it. And, of course, I’ll not mention it. But, 
please, please f let me in on it, Flame, if you can; 
whether it’s true or not!” 

She promised, rising. 

“You’re better, Da; aren’t you? A month 

„ _ n 

ago— 

“Nothing could have roused me like this? 
That’s so. Though nobody ever tried a treasure 
hunt. Not going away, now,—heart o’ me?” 

“Ssh! I must get back to Elodi. And this 
afternoon Martin Pinckney is coming with my 
mother.” 

“Again?” 

“I sent for him. I want him to find out some¬ 
thing for me in the city, and I need his advice.” 

“A man—to help lift, Flame?” 

“Please, Da!” 


THE CROWN OF CYPRESS 


205 


“But you do prefer the birds!” 

“What on earth do you mean?” 

“They give you what you really need. Wings. 
Think it over.” 

“Dan, I’m sorry if I—” 

“Go on, Flame. You go on and toil and let me 
play my little game of sentinel. Hist! Who goes 
there? Password, sirrah! The word is Berenicia. 
Pass, friend!” 

She laughed and sighed. “Dan, dear! I'm 
sorry.” 

She slipped into her pirogue and away. 

When he saw that she was quite gone, he brushed 
his hand across his eyes. 

And as the sound of her paddle diminished, 
ceased, the sound of men’s voices reached Daniel, 
from the direction of that blackness in the midst of 
which glimmered the Pool of the Moon. 


CHAPTER XV 


LANDRY TAKES NO BLAME 

S OON after Berne left home Odrasse arrived 
there, looking for her, to confess having com¬ 
missioned Daniel as guard of the heronry. 
But the reason for his visit mattered little, for 
Odrasse found a new one daily for consulting Ber- 
enicia. He took a grim pleasure in making him¬ 
self suffer. 

He dashed over on Vitesse early this morning, 
but too late for Berne. 

Elodi had arisen early, too. She had slept well 
despite her grief at having quarreled with Landry 
and had come downstairs, pretty as the morning, 
in the hope of a before-breakfast reconciliation. 
Landry had not yet appeared; and Elodi, romantic 
as she was, turned her practical Creole-Acadian eyes 
upon the house and grounds, regretting the run¬ 
down details, understanding the poverty that caused 
them; without bashfulness planning what repairs 
could be made with her Papa’s gift or her own 
dowry. 

She enjoyed her misery over the quarrel with 
Landry, feeling sure now that it was about to end, 
—perhaps in magical fulfilments. 

206 


LANDRY TAKES NO BLAME 


207 


But when Landry did appear, he waved her a 
cheerful good-morning, as though there had never 
been a quarrel. No apology. No regret. He 
had simply forgotten the trouble. And she had 
cried about it! 

Then he asked the servants anxiously whether 
his father had come down, and waited at the stair¬ 
case a few impatient moments. 

When, at last, he spoke to Elodi, it was only, 
lightly ignoring her coldness, to tease her about her 
conquest of that “white-face negro-minstrel,” as 
Elodi privately called Burden. 

“Drive the poignard of your bright glance home, 
Elodi! Every day is a fresh beginning, you know. 
Here comes the victim.” 

“I am nice to him only because he is your friend, 
s’il vous plait. My friends are not so fortunate 
with you, but at the least they are—” she stopped; 
politeness halted her chagrin. 

Landry raised his brows. “Oh! Still rankles; 
eh? That about Odrasse? Silly child! Accept 
my profound regrets!” He bowed low. “I 
apologize. Is that enough ?” 

Elodi was exasperated by this surface apology, 
plainly insincere; but could do nothing but accept 
it. This was not the amende she had hoped for. 
Still, she lifted her soft eyes, reproachful, forgiv¬ 
ing and sweet. 

Landry admired them but was more conscious of 
Burden’s gaze than of hers. He called to him, 


208 


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“Good morning, Mr. Burden!” and said to her 
casually, “Coming in to breakfast with us, Elodi? 
Or waiting for my father?” 

“I’ll wait for your father.” 

“Had your coffee, of course? A bientot y then! 
Come in, Mr. Burden.” 

“Morning, Miss Huval!” Burden clamored. 
“Sorry you won’t join us. I’d wait with you,—glad 
to, you bet!—but I smell corn-bread. O you Loos- 
yanner corn-bread, I hear you ca-a-ll-ing me!” he 
shouted. “And I’m answering quick; I’ll tell the 
world.” He hastened into the dining-room whence 
she soon heard his chortles of joy at the sight of an 
omelette soufflee. 

It was just as Elodi, pitying herself not a little, 
turned toward the gate that Odrasse alighted from 
Vitesse and came toward her. Odrasse, about 
whom she had had this trouble with Landry! 

There were tears in her eyes. Odrasse saw 
them and cried out solicitously in tender French, 
“What hast thou, Dodi? What hast thou, then?” 

“Nothing.” 

Odrasse had never seen Elodi other than blithe 
and conquering; it moved him strangely to see 
her tears. 

Elodi looked at him critically. He had taken off 
the overseas cap, revealing damp curls sticking to a 
shiny forehead; for the morning was warm and Od¬ 
rasse had been riding hard. His brown blouse was 


LANDRY TAKES NO BLAME 


209 


wide open across his bronzed chest, where a daub 
of marsh mud had splashed. 

“Is that the way you come visiting Berne, Toto?” 
asked Elodi. 

“Visiting? What way?” in surprise. 

“All sticky and muddy like that. Your shirt 
wide open so. Not a neck-tie. Your shoes so—’’ 

“Why, Dodi!” he repeated, though with changed 
meaning. “What hast thou, Dodi?” And then, 
laughing, “I’m not visiting. I’m going to work. 
Berne understands. She wears work-clothes, too, 
in the morning.” 

“Without sleeves! Your arms so—” 

“What’s the matter with that?” looking at them. 
“Grand’mere always cuts ’em short and hems ’em 
that way. It’s cooler. What’s the matter with 
you, cheref You’re not crying because you don’t 
like my clothes?” 

“I’m not crying at all. And why should I dis¬ 
tress myself about your appearance,—especially if 
Berne likes it. Only I don’t desire my friends to 
look like—‘rubes’. That is all.” 

He laughed. “But I am a rube. Why not? 
I know I look like a farmer, because that’s what I 
am.” 

“Eh, bienf If you like it, why should I bother to 
defend you?” 

“Defendf From whom?” belligerently. 

Elodi began to cry. 



210 


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Odrasse was disarmed. “Have I said something 
to hurt you? Did I speak too sharply? Awful 
sorry if I did, Dodi! But you puzzled me so,— 
about my clothes. I’ll go right away if you don’t 
like to look at me,” smiling tolerantly. “That’s 
all right. I wish you wouldn’t cry, Dodi.” 

“I don’t want to look at any men,” said Elodi; 
and Odrasse saw a light. It was Landry. 

“If anybody makes you cry and you want I should 
smash him!” he doubled his fists. “I rather a rube 
than a dude. I—” 

“Don’t be stupid, Toto. Nobody’s done any¬ 
thing.” But he had made her feel better. “I 
have a headache. Will you take me home?” 

“I have only Vitesse, chere. No wagon. A 
Mexican saddle!” 

“Well, my aunt, Mme. Boutin, is driving to 
Mme. Le Blanc for artichokes this morning. Will 
you leave word she should pass for me? I want her 
to bring me home. Oh! Berne’s gone already,” 
seeing him look about. 

So Odrasse, disappointed at not seeing Berne, 
went on Elodi’s errand. 

“That Landry did make her cry,” he said to him¬ 
self resentfully. Then, “How she did scold me! 
Wonder if I do look so bad? Dodi’s pretty, even 
when she cries. I could, too, smash him if he makes 
her cry! She must like him, though, to cry.” 

Mr. Burden would not let business cloud his ra¬ 
diant breakfast hour; so, w T hile he ate, he regaled 


LANDRY TAKES NO BLAME 


211 


Landry with a hearty cordiality that did not deceive 
him, told him jests fresh tossed from vaudeville 
circuits, himself guffawing at “the latest” about 
Fords, prohibition, domestic infelicities. Landry, 
naturally fastidious, tried not to show his distaste 
and covered his unresponsiveness by renewed prof¬ 
fers of the smooth, cool, white cheeses, submerged 
in clotted cream. 

Burden finally pushed back his chair, beamed up¬ 
on Tiny and Beetee, who were serving, and bade 
them, “Tell the cook that’s some little breakfast, 
or Jud Burden’s another! Some little feed, I’ll 
tell the world! Say! They won’t believe in that 
cream-cheese up North when I tell ’em. Ought to 
see the grainy stuff we call cream-cheese. Cer¬ 
tainly do live high down here. I bet you eat as 
long as you can keep awake, and then dream about 
grub!” he said to Beetee. 

Tiny and Beetee chuckled with such warm appre¬ 
ciation that Burden was flattered. But, as soon as 
he had gone out through the rear door with Landry, 
big Tiny said to little Beetee, “He ain’t no gen’- 
leman. He ain’t nobody!” and Beetee replied 
with a naughty grin, “I’ll tell de world!” 

Once outside with Landry, Burden dropped his 
geniality. 

“Well?” he asked gruffly. “Old man coming 
through ?'” 

My father? I’m afraid not. I tried. You 
see, I’d be as glad as you can be; more so, I’m sure; 


212 


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for, after all, you can get other lands for your pur¬ 
poses, and it would mean a good deal to me just now 
to sell that swamp at the figure you named.” 

“H’m.” Burden thought, “Are you as big a 
fool as you sound, or are you trying to fool me? 
Any other lands do me as well! A lot they would!” 
And to Landry he said, “I want to tell you some¬ 
thing. You can keep your mouth shut?” 

Landry flushed, made no answer. 

“I’m talking business now. Answer me. Will 
you swear not to tell a living soul what I’m going 
to tell you about my business?” 

“Your business? Certainly.” 

“You give me your word of honor?” 

“Scarcely necessary. Well,—I do, of course.” 

“Lm in the wholesale millinery business.” 

“So? But why is that a secret? God! 
Egrets!” 

“Sure. Took you a long time to get on. Your 
sister got it first crack. Smart kid, that kid ! Darn 
little nuisance! Well, there’s a neat little pile 
o’ money in that strip o’ woods right now. Not 
enough to make the government worry about a man’s 
income,—but every little bit added to what you got 
makes just a little bit more. Anyway, there’s some¬ 
thing in it. If I can own that patch of woods, I’ll 
put up ‘keep out’ signs and my own wardens,—fake, 
of course. And some fine day,—blooie! And 
who’ll know?” 


LANDRY TAKES NO BLAME 213 

Landry was dead white. “Too bad you told 
me.” 

“What?” 

“Because now I can’t let my father sell the swamp- 
wood, of course. It’s against the law,—the birds.” 

“You hypocrite! A lot you care for the law or 
the birds. foo bad I told you, huh? If I hadn’t 
told you, it would-a been all right. I’ve got 
your number all right, my lad. Now, listen here. 
I get those woods or you pay up those advance com¬ 
missions to the people that gave ’em to you. ’Cause 
I’m not going to buy those securities ” 

“But you have bought them!” Landry shouted. 
“You’ve bought them.” 

“Got anything to show for it?” 

“You told me to go ahead, collect the commis¬ 
sions from my friends to meet my notes; you’d 
guarantee to sign tomorrow. You understood 
thoroughly. You assured me—” 

“Changed my mind. Gosh-a-liberty! Man’s 
got a right to change his mind. All you got to do 
is to give back the money.” 

Landry was livid. “You—you—” 

“Better not call me names. Used the money; did 
you? Other fellers’ money; borrowed it under 
false pretenses. That ought to be against the law 
—is it?—like killing a few birds.” 

“That’s a lie. I didn’t! You promised!” 

“Sure, it’s a lie. I’d just as lief say I never told 


214 


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you I’d take the securities. Only considerin’ ’em. 
You were just a little premature.” 

“And you expect me to keep my promise to you!” 

“Yes, sir. The sooner you tell, the sooner your 
bomb’ll bust. Also I’ve bought that note of yours; 
you remember. You thought I was doing it just 
to protect you; didn’t you? Well, I was,—you and 
me, too. Oh! It wasn’t any luck that brought us 
together, you poor boob! It was Jud Burden being 
on the job. My partner overheard your tale of woe 
in the railroad station that day. And I acted 
pronto. Now, do we talk turkey?” 

Landry saw the world fall at his feet; but vain 
and spoiled and light as he was, he had the ultimate 
quality in some degree at least. He choked like a 
weeping girl; but said, “No. We don’t sell. Do 
—what you want to.” 

“It'll drag down the whole caboodle; won't it? 
Down goes the baby, plantation and all! Better 
think it over.” 

“No. We don’t sell.” 

“Then your game’s up.” 

“Yours, too. I’ll put guards in the heronry, 
and report your threats about plume hunting.” 

Burden regarded Landry keenly. He had not 
expected this. He certainly had “pulled a boner,” 
laying his cards on the table this way. He thought 
he’d read Landry better. Thought he had him. 
Time was short for the herons. And he’d hate to 
give up his little scheme with Borel for punishing 


LANDRY TAKES NO BLAME 


215 

the Prowler,—and others,—in that treasure busi¬ 
ness. “Getting even” was as great a passion as 
getting rich to this man; and getting what he 
wanted, winning, was the greatest passion of all. 
Now he’d “spilled the beans”! 

Well, maybe. 

His booming laugh rang out, startling Landry. 
He clapped his shoulder. “Well, well! I guess I 
ain’t so hard-hearted, after all. I like spunk. 
Didn’t think you had it in you. All right. I’ll take 
the securities, I guess, after all. Next week. I 
guess I will. I’m darn sure I will. And I’ll give 
up buying the land, too; I’ll go back to town today. 
Give it all up. Gosh-a-liberty! These ain’t the 
only birds in the world. It’s O. K. We’ll go back 
where we started. You got the best of me and I 
lost my temper. All right. I know when I’m 
done. Nobody ever said Jud Burden was a poor 
loser,—after he’d got his temper back. Those 
stocks are good and I guess I’ll take ’em. I’ll g° 
to N’Yawlins today. That car here yet you 
brought me over in?” 

“Yes. I hired it for a while.” 

“Take me over to Lafayette in it can you? I’ll 
get the next train out. And you can tell the old 
man the deal’s off.” 

Landry almost swooned with relief; yet he now 
had this man’s “number,” too. He could not quite 
believe what he was saying. 

“Seems too good to be true? Well, I’m that 


2 l6 


COME HOME 


way. Impulsive. See you in the city. And, say! 
Now it’s off, you’ll keep your mouth shut about 
what I told you,—what I meant to do,—if I had 
bought the swamp?” 

He hooked his sharp eyes in Landry’s. 

“Of course,”’Landry began; and then he under¬ 
stood. Perhaps this man still had designs on the 
birds! 

“If anything special’s done out there, new guards 
put out—or anything,—I’ll know it; I’ve had a man 
of mine down here for some time. Of course, I’ll 
know you’ve been talking; broken your word to me. 
And then we can’t do business.” 

“But you say you’ve given it up! Then why 
should you care?” 

“Sure, sure. But I don’t want it known what I 
was going to do,—and not getting the birds anyway! 
Well, I guess nothing doing on that. You promised. 
And you’ll keep your word. Get me? I won’t 
have anybody warned.” 

But was not eye saying to eye, “I’m going to get 
the birds. But you’re not supposed to know it. 
This lets you out” ? 

Landry could not be sure. He chose not to try 
to read Burden’s eyes. After all, why conjecture? 
He’d been heroic enough. If anything happened, 
it wasn’t his fault now. Didn’t the plantation out¬ 
value the birds? He had the man’s word and he’d 
given his own. And how could he dare shoot, with¬ 
out owning the heronry? 


LANDRY TAKES NO BLAME 


217 


“If you’ve really given up the project, I’ll forget 
all about it.” 

Thanks,” sardonically. He stalked off. “I’ll 
go pack up. Won’t keep you waiting.” 

Landry sat down on a bench and settled his emo¬ 
tions before going in to Elodi and his father. 

If Camille had attended to business and not gone 
off on this crazy fad about bird-sanctuaries, all this 
might never have occurred. Or if she had let their 
father give him that money, instead of sinking it out 
here! Whatever happened, it wasn’t his fault. 
He d held out all he could. Perhaps he was saving 
the plantation, too! And Burden had said he’d 
given up all idea of getting plumes. Probably he 
meant it. 

As he rounded the house, Landry saw Elodi ready 
to go home. 

His nature was not deep; he welcomed the re¬ 
lief of the meeting. 

“Going away?'” he asked her in affected re¬ 
proach. 

“Yes,” coldly. “A headache. Tante is coming 
for me.” 

He drew her into the arbor. “Be sweet to me!” 
he said. “What’s wrong now?” gently accusing. 

Elodi weakened. “You were rude to my friend, 
and assumed what you had no right to assume; and 
you were not truly sorry.” 

Landry looked at her with an appealing air of 
injured innocence. “You imagined the whole thing, 


2 l8 


COME HOME 


child,” he said. “But I guess you were just tired 
and cross. Let’s make up!” forgivingly. “An 
olive branch!” He pulled a spray off of the sweet- 
olive shrub outside a “window” of the bower and 
fastened it over Elodi’s ear. 

She liked the little ceremony and smiled at him 
again. But she was not really satisfied. She clung 
to her resolution to go home. 

She told her Tante Boutin about it, as they jog¬ 
gled along the uneven road in the little Ford car 
that Mme. Boutin drove proudly and badly; told 
her with wistful eyes fixed on the distant dust of 
the larger car that was bearing Landry and Burden 
to the station in Lafayette. 

“You avoid to fall in love with that young La 
Grande,” her Tante advised. “I have told you so 
before this time. I do not think he is sarious in his 
attention’. But, even if yes; you attend well my 
word’, mignonne . There is more pleasure to a 
woman in a man who beat her with a stick, ma chere, 
and is then ’orrible sorry and confess it to her and 
implore her to forgive him, than in a perfect gentle¬ 
man who hurt’ her feelings and put' the blame on 
her. You attend! It is true what I tell. Be¬ 
ware the man who never apologize’, who never say, 
‘I have wrong.’ You pass by a million dollars. 
Say, ‘No,’ if he have it. But if one has to offer 
nothing but this idea,—‘If I hurt her I must be 
wrong, because she give herself mine to keep her 
happy,’ grab him quick and thank the Sainte Fierge 


LANDRY TAKES NO BLAME 


219 


who protect all good girls. You listen, Elodi!” 

Odrasse waved to them across the savane. 
Mme. Boutin gave her niece a sidelong glance; 
then sighed. 

In the early afternoon, Landry and Jud Burden 
arrived at Lafayette, Burden to go to the hotel and 
“hang around” until time for the “down train,” he 
said; Landry to wait at the railroad station for the 
earlier train that should bring his mother and 
Martin Pinckney from the city. 

Burden had boomed jovially all the way, leaving 
many messages for Berne, making no further refer¬ 
ence to the graver matters between them. 

Maybe he was sincere, Landry kept telling him¬ 
self; perhaps he, Landry, didn’t understand this 
sort of fellow. Unscrupulous, vulgar,—but not a 
cold-blooded liar, surely! Still! 

The train from the city slowed down and a man 
dropped off. Landry thought he recognized him; 
but turned his back before he could be sure it was 
Burden’s partner. He did not try to make sure, 
waited a little to let the man pass, before he went 
back to look for Mater and Martin,—a futile and 
involuntary act of cowardice, like shutting one's eyes 
to ward off a blow. 

He was unusually silent driving home with the 
others. The thought disturbed him: Should he 
warn Odrasse or Camille or Mr. Ned, give them a 
hint as to guarding the heronry? But, after all, he 
was not sure that Burden meant to break his word, 


220 


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—and, if he did not, he had Landry’s own word to 
be silent. And the risk he took in giving warning 
would be as great as that of the birds through his 
silence. More important to them all, besides. 
Still! 

He’d sleep on it, decide by morning. Nothing 
could be done that afternoon, anyway. His de¬ 
cision would keep until next day. 

He was afraid his inherited qualities were win¬ 
ning over his prudence; he was afraid he was going 
to be Quixotic, to tell. Well, let him have one day’s 
respite anyway! 

That respite would have been slight indeed, if he 
could have seen,—while he, driving his mother and 
Martin Pinckney home, was turning his car into the 
bumpy back-road between Cureville and lie Imagin- 
aire,—the train to New Orleans pulling out of 
Lafayette without Jud Burden. 

That gentleman sat beside his partner on the 
shaded sidewalk before Lafayette’s hotel that after¬ 
noon, in one of a long fleet of swaying rush rockers, 
with sails of newspapers and magazines, until the 
Prowler appeared across the street. 

Prowler came according to orders brought to him 
the day before by Borel Veriot, who had leered and 
laughed in drunken, secret triumph as he handed 
him the “boss’s” note. 

When they saw the Prowler, the two arose and 
followed him under the trees of the umbrageous 
little town, followed so far that Burden demurred 


LANDRY TAKES NO BLAME 


221 


at last, “Gosh-a-liberty! Where’s he taking us? 
Don’t he know it’s hot? I ain’t a salamander.” 

The line of trees had stopped at a last fine hack- 
berry; now the unshaded road stretched dusty white 
into a poor quarter of clean, bare cottages, behind 
hedges of shabby-gay hollyhocks; a quarter now 
seemingly deserted and asleep. 

Prowler turned into one of these cottage yards. 
A barefoot girl in one garment opened the door to 
a cool, scrubbed pine interior. 

“Ain’t nobody home. All workin’ but me,” she 
said. 

The men sat down to talk. They spoke at 
length; but what would have troubled Landry most 
was impressed on the others by Prowler. 

“I say to-morrow ” said he. “Chance of a life¬ 
time. Everybody’s going off to a picnic and bar¬ 
becue. Everybody,—niggers and all. Chance of a 
lifetime. You two can get off now on the next train 
to New ’Leans and the rest of us—me and them 
boys of mine,—can slip in the woods before day¬ 
light. Some from the canal side, some from the 
road by the bayou. I got it all fixed. We can fire 
away all morning,—all day, if we have any luck; and 
if anybody does come along, we’ve got it all fixed 
for a get-away. But nobody ain’t going to come. 
You see,” he turned to Burden. “Like I told you 
before, nobody hardly ever goes ’way in there any¬ 
way, except that girl; nothing to go for. And a few T 
shot guns and twenty-two-rifles can do a lot in no 


222 


COME HOME 


time. But, with everybody off in the other direc¬ 
tion, nobody’s likely to hear us even from a dis¬ 
tance. Besides some silencers! Oh, it’s a cinch.” 

“Miss La Grande going away, too?” 

“No. Got you scared, too; has she? But that’s 
the best of it. She’s going to have company from 
the city; I heard her dad let it out to the servant. 
She’s going to sort o’ take a day off. To-morrow's 
the time. Nobody’ll be near them swamps all 
day!” 

Meanwhile Landry was repeating to himself that 
he’d do nothing for that day anyway. He was too 
unstrung for serious decisions. Maybe he would 
drive into Cureville towards evening and win back 
Elodi’s smiles. 


CHAPTER XVI 


BLACK WINGS OF WARNING 

M ARTIN PINCKNEY had, as they say “in 
the parishes,” entered life by the “porte 
doree,” and the golden doors had led to 

pleasant paths. 

He had accepted his charming life in a charming 
manner, always quietly occupied with his business 
affairs, but not too much occupied to give himself 
gracefully to many pastimes. He had never taken 
the work or the play too seriously, but had done both 
well. He was generous; all “causes” knew where to 
find him; he was a small patron of the arts and a 
mild enthusiast about the preservation of the old 
“quarter” in New Orleans. He lived on the sur¬ 
face of life but not superficially; he was completely 
sincere and earnest as far as he went. 

Defended by clean tastes and a whimsical sense 
of humor from the snares that surround rich young 
men, too modest to expect girls to succumb easily to 
his personal equipment, he was tolerant and under¬ 
standing of the maternal solicitude that tried to 
steer daughters to his money and position; yet, too 
wary to be caught in that way, he remained the de¬ 
sirable bachelor of the city. 




224 


COME HOME 


He had kept his word to Berne and was her 
friend. 

It was not easy to be an attentive friend to her 
without raising false assumptions in the mind of 
Mater. But he had managed to send Berne farm 
papers and even implements and other practical 
gifts and to combine them with books and candy 
and pictures and the young-lady tributes that Berne 
received so seldom. 

She accepted all gladly, simply taking the pledge 
of friendship at its face value, and asked his advice 
and guidance when she needed them, as now. 

This position of friend was difficult for Martin; 
because he loved her now. But he was not without 
hope of her, either. 

They were walking by fragrant, flowery paths, 
active with wings of red-shouldered black birds and 
the soaring rainbows of dragonflies, toward Cure- 
ville, where Berne had an errand. It was the 
golden end of the afternoon; the sweet perfumes 
lingered, though the sun that inspired them was no 
longer high. 

“It’s a longish walk; not too warm for you?” 
Berne asked. “We can ride in with Landry, if you’d 
rather. He’s going to make a call.” But Martin 
liked the walk, he said. 

She was apologetic for having brought him from 
town, now that Burden had departed. 

“I’ve brought you here on a false alarm; but I’m 
glad you came. That man you saw going away,— 


BLACK WINGS OF WARNING 


225 


or did you see him? More probably heard him! 
Landry took him to the train,—came here with a 
wild scheme, so impossible that I got suspicious. 
Wanted your keen eye, Martin.” She told him of 
Jud Burden’s strange offer and of how she had 
feared for her birds. 

“I suppose it’s getting to be an obsession with 
me, like Cousin Delice who always thinks robbers 
are coming for the Empress Eugenie’s ormulu clock. 
She’s even taken it to bed with her and was afraid 
to move for fear of its falling out. But his project 
sounded so ridiculous that even my father doubted 
it. And he’s not—” she hesitated. 

“Distrustful of mankind?” Martin suggested. 

They laughed. 

She told him of the counterfeit telegram. “Of 
course, that might have been some business of his 
own.” 

“And in these prohibition days, many have secret 
missions.” 

“Anyway, I wanted you to size up the man 
for me, talk to him, and then get somebody in 
the city to find out his real business. But he’s 
gone.” 

“And I’m here. My stars were on the job. But 
I am sorry not to serve you, child.” 

“You’re so good to me, Martin! You can tell 
me something, though, if you care to, frankly. 
Martin, is Landry—wise? On the Exchange? 
And—generally?” 


226 


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“Afraid not, Berne. But he’s young and not 
stupid. He’ll learn.’’ 

“You’ve been such a good friend; will you be even 
better?” 

“I want to be the best, Berenicia.” She raised 
grateful eyes; but his were veiled. 

“If you could guide him a little,—watch, per¬ 
haps ! He’s worried, I think. He is very 
young—” 

“And, therefore, very sure of himself. I’ve 
tried, and will again. But Landry is never keen 
about being advised; is he?—Berne, look at me!" 

She lifted frank eyes to him. “Yes, Martin?” 

“That’s all. Just wanted to see them,” and still 
smilingly holding them with his own, he suddenly 
asked, “Where’s young Barde?” 

He did not hear her reply. “I thought so,” he 
was saying to himself. “But I mean to give him a 
run for it.” 

Berne’s business was with Judge Julien Le Boeuf, 
whom they found walking in his well-kept, shady 
garden, with General Barde. 

“ Entrez! Come in!” he invited them, with his 
graceful, courtly gestures. “You see, I have just 
plucked this rose for you, my child. Before you 
arrived. A presentiment; eh?” 

“You’re a courtier, Oncle Jubat. But it isn’t a 
bit wonderful that you can guess I’m coming; I 
bother you so often with my affairs. May I have 
a little moment with you soon, on business?” 


BLACK WINGS OF WARNING 


227 

“What a lovely place!'’ Martin exclaimed, re¬ 
garding the brilliant patchwork of old-fashioned 
flowers. 

“It is the artistry of madame y my wife, sir,” the 
Judge said, giving a sprig of mignonette to Martin. 
“Her life is centered in her flowers and the church. 
It is due to her love of flowers that my daughters 
are talented,—with the needle and the pianoforte. 
My daughter, sir, could play the piano before she 
could talk; and that”—with a twinkle—“is pretty 
soon for a girl!” 

The General exchanged a glance with Berne; the 
Judge was launched on his beautiful devotions. 
“Flowers and the church, sir! What a soul that im¬ 
plies ! Her religion, I assure you, is equal to that 
of Charles the Fifth, who left the throne for a mon¬ 
astery.” His fine dark face glowed, he tossed 
back his long white hair. 

“Now, if you care to see my garden,—my own!” 
He led them to the vegetable patch back of the 
house. “It is a War garden,” he laughed. “It 
was planted in 1862!” And when they had ad¬ 
mired it, “Will you entertain yourself in the parlor, 
sir, with General Barde? My daughters will come 
home soon. And you wish to consult me on busi¬ 
ness, Camille Berenicia Marie?” He led her away, 
excusing himself to Martin with one of his expres¬ 
sive gestures. 

Left with Martin, General Barde began im¬ 
mediately, “He is so proud of his family; but so 


228 


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modest of himself! A wonderful man! It was he 
who started our school system here, monsieur. He 
is an admirable jurist. And an orator beyond—” 

The Judge turned at the distant sound of his 
friend’s voice; his eyes were merry; he knew he 
was being celebrated. 

“Tell monsieur how the Democrats sent me 
North to address the miners in 1891 and how, 
thereafter and therefore, the Republicans will al¬ 
ways employ me—to speak for the Democrats!” he 
called, and went away laughing. 

But, quickly serious, turned to Berne. “What is 
it, my child? What do you want to ask me?” 

“Oncle Jubat, if the rice should not be good—” 

“Is it not good?” 

“Very. But if there should be trouble! We 
planted late and our pump and tractor are worn out; 
we couldn’t buy new parts; Mr. Jonas keeps re¬ 
building for me and I believe Onestide holds the 
whole business together by sheer force of anxiety. 
It’s all right so far and we did drown out the grass. 
But now the bayou’s low, an early drought; and if 
there should be salt!” He nodded; the whole 
country-side was beginning to fear a drought. 
“You know what Father did to help Landry. 
Would those creditors wait another year,—if any¬ 
thing should fail? You know what has been done, 
or nearly all that my father has done to raise 
money. I do not,—exactly. Would it be disloyal 
to Father if I ask you to look up records and tell 


BLACK WINGS OF WARNING 


229 


me, as far as you can, where we stand? Just what 
can happen? It isn’t that my father doesn’t want 
me to know, you see. He just doesn’t like to think 
about the troubles himself. And Landry—” 

“I know. Surely it is not disloyal, petite } to ask 
me. You are the manager of these estates. It is 
better for all that you should know. I will see 
what records are at hand and let you know, shortly. 
What Landry may have done is, of course, the x of 
the problem. But Camille Berenicia Marie, look 
up there! At the sky. How far can you see? 
How far beyond the clouds? Not at all; is it not?” 

“Beyond the clouds? No; not at all.” 

“One is there, Who sees all here, however. Let 
us smooth our brov/s and hearts, yes, and leave a 
small part of the management to Clearer Eyes. 
Would that not be more,—how do they say in these 
days?—efficient? Yes, petite?” 

“Yes, Uncle Julien ,—Oncle Jubat,” she used the 
childhood name tenderly and thanked him with a 
smile, as they rejoined the others within. 

The Judge’s charming wife and daughters and 
Berne’s beloved Ellen Broussard having arrived, 
and, soon after them, lemonade and orgeat and 
patience-cakes, ivory toned, crisp and tempting, 
General Barde, walking stiffly, leaning on his cane, 
drew Berne aside under the general talk. As she 
relieved him of his glass emptied of its cool milky 
orgeat, he said to her, “Thank you, my child, for 
keeping my grandson here, with us.” He smiled. 


230 


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“You know, I suppose, that it is for you that he 

stays ?” 

Berne looked at him, startled, but answered, “For 
you, too, sir. For us all, I think. Do you think it 
is well that we keep him here?” 

“But very well! The longer the better, Bere- 
nicia; for him and also for me. It means new life 
to me, to have a young man’s voice in my house— 
again. Oh, yes; it is good for us both. And how 
about you, ma mie? Is it pleasant for you, too, 
that he remains?” 

“T he longer Daniel stays the better for me. No 
matter what comes after,” she told him candidly. 

He bowed, lifted her hand in the old way, kissed 
it. “What comes! What but good can come, my 
little one?” Daniel’s grandfather was naif and saw 
but his own dream. 

Berne pressed her lip and was glad to see Martin 
and Ellen come over to them, saving her from a 
reply. 

Martin regarded her keenly; he could see that 
she was pale, her eyes a moment misty. Martin 
squared his jaw. Fie knew that Berne was a favor¬ 
ite with the General, tried not to let his imagination 
guess of whom they had been speaking. 

The Judge’s alert eye, too, had seen the General’s 
face glow and Berne’s grow pale and Martin square 
his jaw regarding them. As Berne turned to her 
friend, Ellen, he drew the General away from them, 
led him out upon the “gallery,” now growing so 


BLACK WINGS OF WARNING 


231 


dusky that the flowers on the vines shone white as 
stars. 

“Odillon,” he said gently. “Let us not antici¬ 
pate. By doing so, we discount happiness when it 
comes; and, if it fail, we add disappointment to re¬ 
gret.” 

“You are speaking of Berenicia and my boy? 
Why should I not anticipate? Am I never to ex¬ 
pect my wishes to be fulfilled? This would be only 
justice. It is justice,—justice to me! When my 
son, Olivier, married, I gave them that good old 
plantation; it was like giving them my heart,—you 
know well, Jubat. But I gave it to them. And 
then, this little papillon of a wife, she doesn’t like 
it, doesn’t like that plantation. So! She leaves. 
She deserts. And Olivier goes, too, after her and 
with the boy! To follow her, go into business in 
the North with her family, my son sold the planta¬ 
tion, that ancient plantation. And left me alone. 
My son she took, my grandson and my ancient 
home! If Berenicia and the angels can make res¬ 
toration of Daniel, if I can encourage that, shall I 
hold back my voice? Shall I consider her? Mais, 
non!” 

Judge Julien Le Boeuf had been hearing this com¬ 
plaint for many a year. He only said, “But is it in 
your power to decide? To consider? Hope not 
too much. That is all.” The Judge, wise in read¬ 
ing countenances, gravely remembered Martin’s re¬ 
garding Berne. “Besides,—may I say it, old 


232 


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friend?—what could your Daniel do here? And 
for our girl, we want ease, too; is it not? Ease at 
last. Forgive!” 

“I am not so childish as you think,” General 
Barde said rather sharply. “I have given thought 
to that, too. I have my ideas. Well, we shall see, 
my old one!” He gave a defiant chuckle. 

Ellen Droussard had seen the little by-play, too, 
and smiled at her thought: Dear old Berne! If 
she could be happy and rich, too, all the better; but, 
if it came to a choice, kind fate let Berne have what¬ 
ever she wanted and be happy! 

She put her arm about her friend’s waist protect- 
ingly. Berne felt her sympathy. “All goes well, 
Nelly. Don’t you be fretting about me,” she whis¬ 
pered. Then, “There’s Landry’s horn. We’ll 
have to hustle, Martin, to get back in time for 
dinner.” 

In the car, she asked her brother, “Elodi’s head¬ 
ache better, Lan?” . 

“LTnless she’s a good actress. Little rascal was 
sitting on the gallery entertaining everybody of draft 
age in the parish.” He laughed. She was playing 
queen to a group of youths, to be sure, when he 
came; but the coral flew into her creamy cheeks at 
the unexpected sight of Landry and her pansy-petal 
eyes widened with pleasure. “Certainly a sweet 
youngster!” Landry commented. 

“Sweet—and sincere,” Berne said, and Landry at 


BLACK WINGS OF WARNING 


233 


the wheel gave her a sharp, searching glance back 
over his shoulder. 

Berne and Martin met Mater and Peter, waiting 
for them, at the gate of Imaginaire in the light of an 
old lantern on the gatepost. It troubled Berne to 
feel that Mater was reading too much into this 
friendship. 

“You are late. Singsie’s getting anxious about 
the gombo,” said Mater, smiling. 

“Oh, Sis!” Peter cried. “Y’ought to see the 
dandy fishing-pole Jury gave me. He gave it to me 
’cause I told Singsie he was better looking than 
' Brazile over at Broussards’. Gee! Anybody’s 
better looking than Brazile. But Singsie said Jury 
took this pole away from a boy in his congregation 
for fishing on Sunday. So I don’t know if I ought 
to accept it. Think so, Sis? It’s a peach of a 
pole.” 

“That does complicate the situation,” Berne 
laughed. “We’ll talk it over later, Pete.” 

“Well, I guess I’ll go fish a little bit with it early 
in the morning, then,—in case I have to give it up. 
I’ll go speak to Uncle Hope about bait,” running off. 

“Fine lad!” Martin said to Mater. 

“Tell it to Berne, Martin. She’s his real mother. 
Didn’t you hear him ask her moral guidance just 
now? And he’s been with me for an hour!” 

“It’s because he thinks you’re too young,” Martin 
began. “Now, Berne—” he turned toward her; but 


2 34 


COME HOME 


Berne was waving apology and running along the 
coulee road to meet an old woman in a ramshackle 
buggy. 

The old woman was lighting a lantern, the glow 
made her ugliness witchy. She was black-clad, pear- 
shaped, and wore a black sunbonnet stiffened by 
little sticks. Her face, too, was shaped like an over¬ 
ripe pear and her eyes were pitted specks in it. 

“That’s the girl you think unimpulsive,” Mater 
said laughing. “Want to run after her? Mme. 
Veriot is interesting. An herb doctor, and, some 
say,”—she whispered in mock mysteriousness,—“a 
Hoodoo I” She liked to play with Martin, but had 
resigned him entirely to her daughter. 

But Martin expostulated, “You’re not dismissing 
me, Madam?” and stayed with her. 

“ Bonjour, Mme. Veriot!” Berne called and 
spoke to her in the French patois that was the only 
lauguage the old woman knew. “You are very far 
from home, madame. And it is so late!” 

Borel’s mother turned her pits of eyes on Berne, 
revealing nothing, smiling over-sweetly. She knew 
that Berne had been hunting for Borel and she 
thought she knew why. Here was a chance to mis¬ 
lead her. 

“Oh! Yes! My neighbor let me use this horse 
and buggy. I am come so far to gather the herbs 
for my poor boy. Of course I go far—and late—to 
find a cure for my poor boy.” 

“Beque is ill? Or Balthasar?” 


BLACK WINGS OF WARNING 


235 


“No, chere. It is my poor Borel.” 

Berne thought quickly. No one quite trusted this 
old lady; but few found any reason for actual dis¬ 
trust, either. Her simple-hearted neighbors feared 
her alleged occult powers and seldom complained 
even to Mr. Ned, their landlord, of her unsanitary 
and unneighborly housekeeping; and her thrilling 
tales of weird experiences intrigued them and gave 
her a certain position despite suspicions of her ver¬ 
acity. So, with Berne and Mr. Ned and the other 
planters, there' was always something appealing 
about the old rascal, something pathetic, that pled 
for her the indulgence due a queer but harmless old 
nuisance. 

Borel ill? But Dan had seen him yesterday. 

“What is the matter with Borel?” 

The old lady shrugged sadly. “Who knows? 
But I am to know—soon,” cryptically. “Maybe 
it is a pain in the heart of my poor boy that his 
honest motives are not better understood, chere; 
eh?” 

“How long has he been ill?” 

Ah! The old woman had been on the look-out 
for this question. “When this trouble has come to 
him? Only this morning. He is now in bed. I 
go home with them now, the herbs to heal him.” 

“I hope they will. I’m coming over to Salt Mine 
in the morning, to your house. I want to see Borel, 
want to talk with him.” 

The old woman’s huge bulk palpitated. She had 


236 


COME HOME 


not expected this development. And Borel, her “in¬ 
valid,” was at that moment deep in the swamp, in 
the abandoned hut of an “alligator-man,” covered 
with mosquito-netting, waiting orders from the 
Prowler. She did not expect him to be home next 
morning. 

She raised dirty, pudgy hands. “Oh! No, no, 
no! No, chere. I implore that mademoiselle will 
not come. My poor boy is so sick and the herbs 
will not do their work unless he is entirely alone. 
The herbs and—” she looked mysterious—“and 
something else. Other remedies. Not tomorrow, 
mademoiselle! I am desolated. But mademoiselle 
will wait until after tomorrow?.” She wiped her 
eyes. There was a real tear on her cheek. 

“Why, of course, I won’t visit you if you don’t 
want me.” 

“If I don^t want you! Oh, how I am mis¬ 
judged !” 

“No, no. I mean if it’s not wise. Does Borel 
need anything?” 

“The poor always need. And now that my poor 
boy has been so unfortunate as to displease Mr. 
Ned, I do not like to request him—” 

Berne smiled, knowing how constantly and suc¬ 
cessfully the Veriots “requested” him. “Well,” 
she said. “Go to the kitchen, if you wish, and ask 
them to give you what you need.” 

“The good saints bless you!” Then she had a 
happy thought. “You don’t like that man who 


BLACK WINGS OF WARNING 


237 


comes with my Borel over this way sometime, 
mademoiselle? A mother must watch—” 

“I don’t like him to get Borel drunk; do you?” 

“Oh! He does that? The black devil! But 
maybe not altogether so black, after all. He has 
gone to the city today for a few days and will bring 
back some muslin to make my Belle her dress for the 
ball. He is going to buy it, a gift to my Belle. So! 
There is good in us all!” She shrugged charitably 
and went off to the kitchen. 

She had done a good job. Now the small idiot 
would believe Borel ill and in seclusion and the 
Prowler out of town. “I have reassured her,” she 
chuckled. 

Her words, indeed, should have reassured Berne; 
but her contact had the opposite effect. Or some¬ 
thing had. 

All that evening, Berne had been feeling a subtle 
unrest, a vague sense of threat. At the moment 
when she met Mme. Veriot, it deepened to definite 
unease. 

All through dinner, she fought it. And after¬ 
wards, while she accompanied her father, playing the 
old piano very softly that its jangled keys might not 
mar the beauty of his violin,—a service that usually 
soothed and rested her,—her nerves were quivering. 

Mater, in the glow of the lamp, was her most 
amiable and prettiest self. Peter was reading, 
curled up in the window-seat with a copy of St. 
Nicholas. Landry and her good friend, Martin, 


238 COME HOME 

were listening to the music, in the shadows. The 
room was sweet with the fragrance of the first Con¬ 
federate jasmines opening outside the windows. 

It was just the sort of evening that Berne loved, 
the kind to make her forget her cares. 

But now they came about her on black wings in the 

dark. 

“If I had neck-feathers, they’d be rising,” she 
thought. 

Oh! It was just because this was a restful 
moment. She had been at high tension; soon she 
would relax. 

The black wings swung about her. 

At least the birds were all right for the present; 
Borel ill, Prowler away, Burden, if he had been 
after them, gone. 

How lovely that melody! There was a note in 
'Commodore’s violin just then like the diminishing 
languor of the whitebrowed warbler’s song. She 
could almost see his vivid person, slate and black 
and orange and white, winging through the cypress 
brake. The cypress brake ! 

The black wings brushed Her cheek. 

She was glad it was music tonight instead of talk, 
glad that Mater and Martin and Landry were 
sleepy and went to bed almost as early as Peter did. 

Her father always read until late. This was a 
good chance to warn him, to tell him what Dan had 
heard, ask him to entrust his secret to Odrasse and 
Daniel. Oh, no! She would wait until morning. 


BLACK WINGS OF WARNING 


239 


She must be too tired tonight, or why should she 
feel this restless anxiety, so unlike herself? 

She kissed his delicate, blue-veined temple, clung 
to him a moment as she said, “Good night.” He 
was so good and sweet, poor, dear Commodore! 

She went to bed but could not sleep. What was 
the matter? 

Could it be because of Da? No. This feeling 
was akin to fear. Perhaps the thought of Daniel, 
that more tangible ache, would be a counter-irritant. 

So she lay thinking about him. She had not had 
much time to do so since that talk in the forest, to 
think about what he had said, what he meant, how 
hurt his eyes were under the laughter. 

Wings! Yes! Daniel was as wings to her. She 
recognized that that was true. Since his health had 
improved and the listlessness of illness had gone, she 
had turned with ever-increasing eagerness to his 
gaiety, his whimsies, his charm. Gai-Dal Oh, in 
that much he was right. It was what she needed,— 
play. 

And how they would miss this playmate! Com¬ 
modore would miss him too. What an unusual, 
bright Commodore it was, that other evening, laugh¬ 
ing heartily in the big chair, his .ZEschylus forgotten 
on the floor beside him, while Dan read aloud from 
“Once Aboard the Lugger!” She called up picture 
by picture. Gai-Da teaching wig-wag to Peter and 
Beetee and Shoestring—that funny class !—out in 
the meadow. Gai-Da making old Hope's eyes 


240 


COME HOME 


twinkle with tales of how the army mules behaved 
before the negroes came over to France, and of their 
reformation after that. Gal-Da wheedling Singsie 
into making frozen cream-cheese for him. Gal-Da 
going to church in Cureville with such a radiant 
Grandpere leaning proudly on his arm! Gal-Da 
holding Mme. Boutin’s yarn as she wound it and 
singing old chansons with her, her broken soprano 
and his not-too-musical baritone ending in laughter 
together. “Eh, ron, ron, ron!” 

How Daniel seemed to enjoy it all, the play! In¬ 
deed, they would miss him. But wings were not 
enough without a nest! 

She would not clip those wings, would not let him, 
in his tender mood, undertake responsibilities, 
promises that might later become chains upon his 
spirit. Wings were to fly away with. 

Wings! 

Again the black wings in the darkness. That 
insistent apprehension! 

At last, she dropped into troubled slumber. 

Once Mr. Ned, Berne’s Great Gentleman, had 
confided to her a new understanding of birds, his 
discovery or his fancy. Having lived with them 
hour by hour and day by day, he had come to believe 
that they could communicate with one another by 
thought transference alone, or by means almost as 
tenuous. He felt it, could almost “get” it himself, 
sometimes, he said. 


BLACK WINGS OF WARNING 


241 


Perhaps he was right. And perhaps bird- 
protectors could share this power. Perhaps it was 
the sure, silent call of the depth of need to the love 
that would help; but something, at least, brought 
Berenicia to her feet in the red flush of dawn. 
Something as definite as a cry. 

She knew that she must hurry, though she did not 
know why. Something was wrong; she must find 
out what it was. 

She dressed in her khaki as quickly as she could; 
not even stopping to brush her hair, half-braided it 
loosely. 

She took her little revolver and went toward the 
stables. 

The crimson dawn was changing into the red- 
gold of early day, when she had saddled her horse 
and was about to mount him. 

She heard the rumble of an automobile, dying in 
the distance,—probably on a “branch” of the main- 
road, w T here it crossed her road by the coulee. 

She ran to the gate, climbed the gate-post in the 
vines, to see if she could catch a glimpse of it at the 
one clearing in the winding road where that might 
be possible. What car would pass on that incon¬ 
venient road, so early? 

She could not see the car, but could tell when it 
passed that clearing, quickly—too quickly—disap¬ 
pearing in a cloud of rosy-tinted dust. 

She ran back to the stables, mounted her horse, 


242 


COME HOME 


dashed down the coulee road towards the cross¬ 
roads. Somehow she had to follow that car as far 
as she could. 

At the junction of the roads, she knew why. 

Something had fallen from that speeding auto¬ 
mobile, something white, lying in the road. She dis¬ 
mounted, picked it up. Something that turned the 
world into flames of anger. 

The bloody “scalp,” crowned with its lovely, re¬ 
curved plumes, sliced from the quivering, living back 
of a snowy heron ! 

Back on her horse, she fairly flew homewards, 
then to old Hope’s cabin door and hammered on it. 
She shouted to old Hope to run to the house and 
“call up” Odrasse, at once, at once, and send him to 
the heronry. 

Her horse w r ent fast, but by the time she had 
reached the store by the ferry and pounded on 
Noalie’s door, the fleet Vitesse had brought Odrasse 
beside her. 

“Obar! Obar!” she cried. “Come to the 
'Cypress Pool—w T ith your gun. Plume hunters! 
Come, come! Is Dan Barde here, Noalie?” 

“He went with Caleb the fisherman. Last night. 
I don’t know, chere, where—” 

But Berne had gone, following Vitesse, who dis¬ 
appeared in the distance. 


CHAPTER XVII 


RED DAWN 

A NOTHER warning had been received in the 
night. 

Daniel, when he stayed over night at the 
ferry, slept in the improvised bedroom in a lean-to 
addition to Obar’s house, a little room kept for 
chance guests belated. It had its own outside door¬ 
way, and to this had come Dan’s friend, Caleb, the 
fisherman. 

Caleb knocked sharply, whispered, “Quick! It’s 
Caleb. Hurry up!” 

“Qui est Id?” came Obar’s sleep voice from 
within. “Who is?” 

“Caleb. Sorry I woke you. Me’n Barde’s goin’ 
on a hunt.” 

Daniel followed Caleb’s long form to the boat 
in the canal. Caleb, lank and slow, looking as 
Abfaham Lincoln might have looked if ambition 
had never claimed him, held up the lantern for Dan, 
saying, “I don’t know as I’ve really found anything, 
Barde. And, tell you the truth, I don’t much be¬ 
lieve there’s anything to find. I don’t know what 
you and Guidry got in your heads. But you asked 

243 


244 


COME HOME 


me to watch and I’m watchin’.” He laughed. 
“You said if I saw anything unusual while I’m 
night-owling, like I do,—well! Now I’ll show you 
something I ain’t never seen before in these waters, 
and that’s saying a heap. A light in the old alli¬ 
gator hut. Wind’s right,” he said as they sat 
down. “And current’s with us. Reckon I’ll use the 
sail ’stead of the motor. We don’t want any racket 
if we can help it, I suppose? Yessir. I seen a 
light in the cabin. Ain’t anybody used that hut since 
Alligator-man moved to th’ other side the woods 
in ’97. First off, I thought it was niggers,—some 
Hoodoo doin’s, maybe. But kind of didn’t seem 
like that. And, then I thought ’twas liquor 
smugglers and I’d better mind my own business. 
Lots of deep water hereabouts, and boats on the 
Gulf—you know how it could be. It was too far in 
the swamp for that,—too many better places; but 
yet and still! Well, I was just gliding along, keep¬ 
ing my eyes open like you and ’Drasse said to do; 
and I seen where a pirogue had gone in,—been 
dragged over the mud,—I seen it by my lantern 
light. Good thing that window’s so high up in the 
cabin, or I’d a-been spotted, sure’s you’re born. 
Golly! We ’most hit bottom, then! Canal’s get¬ 
ting powerful low. Bound to rain soon, though; 
bound to! Well, I got to shore and I picked up 
this-yer bottle. Had been full o’ gin. Smell it. 
Yes; ain’t it? But some folks is hard to kill. 
Well, I seen it was Borel Veriot’s—” 


RED DAWN 


245 


“How?” 

Caleb chuckled. “These-yer funny marks on the 
bottle. That’s the way his mother scratches up on 
the yerb bottles she puts up,—to make folks think 
it’s ‘gifted.’ She never lets them bottles out of her 
keeping; just pours the stuff out for her ‘patients.’ 
And that gin smells like Borel, too.” He laughed. 
“You told me to watch Borel particular. So then I 
come on and fetched you. If you want to go in and 
take a peek at whatever’s doing, I’ll take you.” 

All this in low tones, as the boat drifted quickly 
down the canal between the black shadows of the 
woods, where the wraiths of gray moss waved 
ghostly signals and the long fingers and fans of 
palmettos beat a witches’ tattoo. 

The lapping, whispering voices of the swamp, the 
sudden hisses and murmurs, the swiftly hushed 
cries in the blackness, the sense of silent watchers 
and silent gliders on the marge, made Dan feel like 
a sailor on Avernus. 

He took an electric torch from his pocket; 
Grandpere had bought it to use in the automobile he 
intended to purchase—maybe—some day. “Too 
small to be much good in there, I’m afraid,” Dan 
said. 

“Don’t flash it now,” Caleb warned him. He 
had darkened his lantern. “Look!” 

Far back in the blackness, like a pinhole in a sable 
curtain, shone an eye of light, and, beneath it, misty 
rays glinted between the logs of the old cabin. 


246 


COME HOME 


“Brought my pirogue up from yonder before I 
called you,” said Caleb. “Grab her; will you? 
Right there. And drag her along. I got to find a 
safe covey for this bateau before we leave her. 
There’s a little bay along here somewhere,—nobody 
could find in if they didn’t know. Here she is! 
Now, then!” 

In the pirogue, while Caleb paddled through the 
black swamp, they had to release the glow of the lan¬ 
tern and Dan had to flash the torch on old roots and 
stumps and submerged moss-tangles. But they 
kept on the side of the cabin away from its door and 
believed themselves unseen. The sighing of the 
swamp waters covered the almost silent dip of 
Caleb’s practised paddle. 

But Borel, too, was a swampsman; and this was 
not the first time he had had cause to hide in the 
brake. His quick ear caught the faint, regular tap 
of the blade. Motioning his companions to silence, 
he had slipped out and around the cabin. He got 
a flash of the light and two men dimly outlined 
against it. 

He came back excited, with triumphant vanity 
more than with apprehension. 

“Uh—huu,” he whispered. “You all think 
•Borel one fool, hein, to insist we protect this way in 
the woods—from the canal water. I saw that 
Caleb; what for he want come up canal, when she’s 
low, and better fishing in the bayou and golf; 


RED DAWN 


247 

heinf For watch! That’s for what. For sneak. 
And this here Barde—” 

“Aw, shut up! Tell us what’s doing. Who’s 
coming?” from Prowler. 

“Them two; must be. I couldn’t see. But Borel 
had right—” 

He had taken enough of his deadly gin to make 
him loquacious. Prowler covered his mouth with 
no gentle hand. 

“Damn you; shut up! Now, let’s see what to do. 
Three of us and only two of them, if you’re right. 
Our folks must be nearly in from the road by now. 
We’ll have to move quick, soon’s it’s daybreak, to 
meet ’em. Let’s see. Thing to do is to get these 
whoever-they-are tied up here. It’s too late to stop 
our crowd and we can’t have nobody see us. Get 
’em tied up here; knock ’em out in the dark, if wc 
can. And leave somebody to guard that door and 
keep them. That’s the ticket. Then we can go to 
Cypress Pool when day comes, meet our men and go 
to it! This’ll be a good thing for us, if we use it 
right. ’Cause if these fellows are spying on us and 
if they don’t show up or give warning, the folks'll 
think everything’s O. K., in here. We can keep ’em 
locked up in there all day, like as not. The hut’s 
strong and there’s a good lock on the door. And 
Jim’s big enough to handle the two of ’em; and 
we’re here too. Then, you stay on guard after¬ 
wards, Jim. Veriot’s too drunk.” 


248 


COME HOME 


“No. Me. I stay on guard,” said Borel. 

“Nothing doing! You’d like to keep out of the 
bird-shooting if you could.” 

“Yes. Why not? I live here—” 

“So you can be free to squeal on us, if you want 
to? No, siree. Ssh!” 

As Dan and Caleb approached, the window went 
black. 

“They’ve put out the light,” Dan whispered. 

“No. Look. That reflection on the tree. 
They’ve taken the lantern around the house to the 
other side. Ready to make a get-away, likely. We 
must get behind ’em. Of course, you can use a 
gun?” 

For a moment Dan's old trouble clutched at his 
nerves. He shook it away. “You bet I can!” he 
said. 

“I got another,” and Caleb gave him one. 

“Wouldn’t it be better to put out the lights?” 

“Much. But we can’t; need ’em. It’s tricky 
here.” 

But soon they hit the natural embankment on 
which the hut stood; on the side they had aimed for, 
away from the door. Dan slipped his torch back 
into his pocket. They stepped out into the ooze, 
pulled up the boat and were about to put out the lan¬ 
tern, when from the thicket two men leaped upon 
them. 

One crashed an accurate boot through Caleb's 
lantern. 


RED DAWN 


249 


The night was pitch dark. 

Dan drew his gun, but hesitated to shoot. After 
all, he did not know who these men were; nor, posi¬ 
tively, that they were outlaws. But he let his 
assailant feel the revolver and backed him against 
the cabin. 

He cried out, hearing a scuffle close at hand, “Let 
my buddy go, or I’ll shoot this fellow. All right, 
Caleb?” 

Arms surrounded him from behind; the sharp 
crack of a stick threw his pistol to the ground. 

Dan turned to help the older man. “All right, 
Caleb?” 

But Caleb was strong. “Sure!” he panted. 
“I’ve got him down. Look to yourself. Damn—!” 
They had thrown a cotton-sack over Caleb’s head, 
and two forms dimly seen, were dragging him into 
the cabin. 

As Dan rushed after them on the narrow, 
slippery ground, in the dark, an arm and a 
boot assailed him of some one braced against the 
cabin. 

Daniel fell backward into the swamp. 

His feet sank into moss and mud; his head 
splashed through the water.and hard upon a sunken 
log from which the startled moccasins hurried. 

Had that log not been covered with lichens and 
ancient mosses, Dan might have suffered severely 
from the blow. Had it not been there at all, his 
head would have sunk beneath the waters. 


250 


COME HOME 


As it was, he came to himself quickly, though 
dazed. 

He came to himself; but to another self,—that 
one he had been in France. 

The flash of moving lanterns blazed, in his 
memory, into a far-distant Very shell; the ooze he 
lay in was the detestable mud of the trenches; the 
pain in his head was no new pain; that gray-black 
figure bending above him was there for his life; a 
mortal enemy. 

Dan thrilled again, as to the “great game,” alert, 
wary, alive. 

He kicked his feet loose from the moss, braced 
them against the water-covered half of the cypress 
log upon which the man, Jim, was standing. He 
warily moved his left elbow to rest on the wood be¬ 
neath his head; raised his head slowly. 

Over that slowly rising head, Jim dropped the 
sack he was holding open, called out to his mates 
in the darkness, “Fve got him. Beat it! Beat it!” 

But Jim was mistaken. Just as Jim’s heavy 
voice had boomed out its message, just as the sack 
descended over him, Dan, who had “played” so 
well in the gymnasium where he had shone as an 
amateur boxer, who had “played” so well on the 
gridiron where his quick responses became famous, 
brought his trained muscles tense, and with a des¬ 
perate sweep of energy launched his right fist 
to the point of the other man’s jaw, with the full 
force of his upspringing body behind it. 


RED DAWN 


251 


Big Jim crumpled silently, doubled up forward, 
fell face down upon Daniel. He was “out.” 

Dan rolled him over in the ooze; sat upon him; 
extricated his own head from the sack; slipped the 
sack upon Jim’s. 

Prowler and Borel had left Caleb bound in the 
hut, where they had dragged him, and had jumped 
into their pirogue at Jim’s call. 

Hearing the splashing waters, Prowler was not 
satisfied. 

“Is it all right, Jim?” he cried. “Need us? 
Have you got him?” 

Jim was unconscious, but Dan pressed his hand 
hard upon his mouth through the sack to make his 
silence sure. 

The Prowler repeated the call, anxiously; lifted 
his lantern. 

Daniel stiffened himself for trouble, drew his 
head aside until his face was hidden behind a cy¬ 
press, waved a reassuring hand into the pale beam 
of the distant light. Then Daniel, who had 
“played” so well as an amateur actor and imitator, 
deepened his voce and dared to reply in the heavy, 
negroid tones he had just heard, “‘Sure! Beat it! 
Beat it!” 

“Pll send a boat back for you later on,—if it’s 
O. K. Right now, we’ll need everybody. If it 
don’t come, you can make out, canal side, by day,” 
Prowler cried. 

The cold lapping water in his face, wetting it 


252 


COME HOME 


through the sack, was slowly reviving Jim, who 
struggled feebly. 

“Please Heaven they go on before I have to 
drown this chap,” Dan thought. 

He dragged Jim towards the hut; it was hard to 
do because Jim was heavy. But it was not far. 

In the gloom, Prowler and Borel still lingered to 
make sure all was well. 

Dan kept his head down, his face away from the 
flickering ray of their lantern. 

As he slammed the door of the hut, he dared to 
call, simultaneously with the bang of it, “O. K. So 
long!” 

He heard the diminishing pat of their paddles. 
Then he drew his flashlight from his pocket, looked 
for Caleb, who was bound and too still for Dan’s 
reassurance. 

“Caleb!” he cried, rousing him. 

“All right!” the fisherman answered rather 
feebly, giving thanks for the sight of Daniel. Dan 
released him, bathed his head with handfuls of 
marsh water, tied his handkerchief about the ugly 
contusion there that had stunned him. 

“Better look at that fellow!” said Caleb after a 
little. 

Jim was clutching faintly at the wet sack that 
was suffocating him. 

They took his gun away, released him from the 
sack, bound him with the ropes that had tied Caleb. 

“Oh, yes! I’m all right. Just groggy a little,” 


RED DAWN 


253 


Caleb answered Dan’s solicitude. Then he flashed 
Dan’s torch over Jim, a stranger to him, a mulatto 
follower of Prowler’s from the Florida swamps. 
He was “coming to,” but still dazed and unhappy. 
Caleb looked from the mulatto’s brawn and bigness 
to Daniel. Then he laughed. 

“Fm all right,” said he. “And, for a sick man, 
seems to me like you’re all right yourself.” 

Dan’s voice shook with a sudden realization. 
“I’m a well man, Caleb,” he said. 

The next instant was to prove it. 

They had locked the door on Jim and stepped out 
into the mire; the first pale ruddy-gray of dawn 
flickered into the forest. If it was growing light in 
the woods where they were, Dan thought, it must 
be clearer still on the Crown of Cypress Pool, to 
which perhaps those others were bound. 

He turned to Caleb eagerly. 

“Well, we sure got ourn,” Caleb said shame¬ 
facedly, leaning against the cabin wall. “I declare 
I’m a dandy guide!” 

“No one could foresee— Listen!” 

Borne by a sudden breeze, from far off in the 
woods, came the sharp crackle of shots. Over¬ 
head and all about them, cries and rushes of 
distress, of anger, of warning, broke out through 
the wild. 

Shots! But all they meant to Daniel was a call 
to action. Distant shots; and he wanted to get 
near them! 


254 


COME HOME 


“They’re shooting egrets!” he cried. “Come! 
Come!” 

But their pirogue was gone! 

Standing, futile at the cabin door, hearing oc¬ 
casional far-off shots and the outraged cries of 
nearby sympathetic birds, Dan felt a terrible bitter¬ 
ness and an overwhelming exultation. 

He wanted to save Flame’s birds for her. He 
had tried to save them. And now! His eyes w T ere 
hot with angry tears. Now, by George, he would 
save them! 

“Can’t we walk? Isn’t there a way?” 

“Yes. We can walk. It’s a long way ’round, 
though, and slow.” Caleb was sorry for him. 
“But come on. Watch out for snakes. Kick out 
before you step out. So!” 

They were, neither of them, entirely without 
dizziness and the way on foot toward the Cypress 
Pool was arduous and uncertain. But Caleb went 
ahead, using the torch in shadowy places, picking out 
safe logs and ridges; and Daniel followed with 
wrath in his heart. 

Every time a gun cracked, he clenched his fists. 
Lnless he could do something now, he was “foot¬ 
less,” useless, he told himself; simply no good. 

He could not even pause to celebrate that he had 
proved himself a well man that night, a man re¬ 
stored. 

This was Flame’s game, protecting birds was her 


RED DAWN 


255 


game; the game she loved. And it was his game 
now to save them. He was going to win it for her. 

He crashed on through the morass, slipping, 
stumbling in the darkness and the shadowy light of 
dawn. 

And in all the worry and trouble of it, something 
sang in his heart. He laughed. After all,—in a 
sense,—as always with him, Gal-Da was having a 
good time. 

“Good thing they left you your gun, Caleb. And 
I’ve Jim’s ‘cannon.’ How long will it take them to 
get all the herons? Are we going to be too late?” 

“No. Not too late. Some, of course! They 
must be counting on shooting all day; anyway all 
morning. Couldn’t very well line the birds up and 
shoot ’em at daybreak, all at once, you know.” He 
chuckled. “They keep on coming back to the nests, 
—cranes won’t desert their young-uns, no matter 
what.” To protect their nests! “So they can keep 
on potting at ’em, ’way in yonder.—Is to say, they 
think they can. H’m. Prob’ly quite a few of them 
fellers in yonder, Barde. And just you and me,” 
Caleb suggested. “How was you figuring on mak¬ 
ing ’em stop ?” 

“Let’s decide about that,” cried Gal-Da and be¬ 
gan to think out a strategy. 

When Daniel and Caleb neared the hunters in the 
crimson dawn their plan was made. 

“What they’ll want to do is to get away safely,” 


256 


COME HOME 


said Dan. “And that, I guess, we can’t stop,—just 
we two. But we can stop the slaughter; and that’s 
the main thing.” 

“If they think there’s only two of us, no telling 
what they’ll do us,” said Caleb, “to keep us from 
giving them away. It’s a penitentiary offense, 
killing herons. And we’re pretty far from any¬ 
where.” 

“Exactly. So they must be made to think that 
we’re a crowd.” He outlined his plan. Then, 
“They believe you and I are tied up in the cabin; so 
that ought to help. And, whatever happens, we 
have friend Jim!” he said. 

Sharp shots came; they were closer to them. 
Dan’s nerves gave one sensitive quiver. “Be still!” 
he ordered them mentally. 

He and Caleb separated in the swamp, each to 
his own agreed side of the pool. Then, as the 
hunters were quiet, they fired their guns quickly into 
the air,—Dan’s gun, Caleb’s, Dan’s. And Dan’s 
voice rang out, “Here! We’ve got ’em! Six of 
you cut them off to the right, Warden; the six others 
close in here with us!” He fired again. 

They could hear the others crashing through the 
swamps, in their pirogue and afoot; fleeing wildly. 

Daniel and Caleb shook the underbrush, fired 
again, shouted, “Hurry, men ! In here ! They’re 
making a get-away.” 

Soon they heard the auto starting, tearing down 


RED DAWN 


25 7 


the road,—the auto that went so fast that Berne 
saw the last of it even as the dawn was fading. 

The red and gold and saffron lanterns of the 
dawn hung on every tree around the Cypress Pool, 
sparkling on the jade and chrysoprase and emerald 
of foliage and breaking it into bloom of ruby and 
amber, of amethyst and topaz. 

The waters of the Pool, a turquoise plate, like 
the round of morning sky above it, held all this 
jeweled radiance. 

But many of the white flowers of wings that had 
decked the trees had fallen. 

The Crown of Cypress Pool was red with more 
than dawn. 

There lay many beautiful egrets, on the ground 
and in the waters, torn and quivering bodies, their 
backs raw from the scalpers’ knives, their crests 
still bleeding! 

The happy nuptial plumes had been torn away 
from living bodies to grace some ladies’ hair, to 
make some hats more costly. 

There lay parent birds, some stark dead, some 
dying with sad sounds, some palpitating silently to 
death. And, above them, in many homes of twigs 
in the thickets,—in homes they had stayed to pro¬ 
tect and had died in vain to protect,—their baby 
birds were waiting to die of hunger. 

Some nests were down, torn by ruthless hands; 
the infant inhabitants of these were the more fortu- 


258 


COME HOME 


nate fledglings; they would die less slowly. Some 
were drowned; some injured, were being eaten-alive 
by the insects that already crowded into the wounds 
of the parents. 

The Crown of Cypress Pool was a sanctuary no 
longer. 

These birds were gone; but they were but few 
compared with the many hundreds saved! The 
hundreds of homes that Daniel had saved for 
Berne. 

“But we’ve saved most of them! We’ve saved 
most of them!” Daniel exulted. “There are some 
casualties, of course,” he smiled sadly, looking 
about him. “But those fellows will never come 
back now! The rest of the nests are safe! Caleb, 
—I’m sort of tired. Let’s go in there—Guidry’s 
platform—and rest.” 

The world began to swim a little. 

Caleb picked up a young bird, put it in his pocket, 
followed Daniel. 

They lay curled on the little floor of Odrasse’s 
platform, smoking and resting as the red dawn con¬ 
tinued to change into the golden morning, through 
which Berne would canter to the woods. 

It was far from the ferry to the woods. Berne 
felt that her horse,—though, in fact he had never 
gone faster than now,—was moving like a snail. 
What was happening, what had happened? Oh, 
hurry! 

Her loosely made braid had opened; the flaming 



RED DAWN 


259 

hair streamed free behind her as she urged the 
horse to follow Vitesse. 

What were they about to find? She had a 
frightful vision of torn, dead and dying birds, of 
young doomed to starve,—by hundreds! But it 
was so early! The hunters could not have finished 
so early. Yet, that flying automobile! Had 
somebody frightened them away or,—she feared 
this was the truth,—had the hunters been there 
the day before, after she—and Dan—had left? 
When she was with Martin? When Daniel, who 
had been left on guard, was—where ? 

As she dismounted at the swamp marge, she 
saw where that car had stood under the heavy 
trees; where it had started. 

She tied her horse beside Vitesse, entered the 
woods, picking her way after Odrasse. 

It was silent in there. 

In the reaction, Daniel had suddenly grown very 
weary and Caleb’s head was none too comfortable, 
now that he had time to think about it. They were 
glad to rest on the platform and smoke. 

Daniel looked up into the feathery, green-lace 
cypress branches against the sky, where some heron 
scouts were reconnoitering. 

“Saved ’em for you, buddies!” he called out to 
them. 

Caleb laughed. “You’re a kid,” he said. 

Dan grew serious. “Think so, Caleb? I mean 
do you think it’s—incurable?” 


26 o 


COME HOME 


“Hope so,” Caleb replied. “That don’t go to 
say you ain’t a man > too, I don’t mean.” 

“Thanks. Hello! What’s that? Is somebody 
coming? These noises in here always fool me.” 

“Wait. Yes, sir. Somebody is coming. Funny, 
too. Can’t be them. Maybe somebody heard the 
shooting—” 

They rose, came forward to the clearing beside 
the Cypress Pool, now a bowl of morning sunshine. 

“It’s Guidry,” Caleb cried as Odrasse burst 
through the thicket at the other side of the 
pool. 

Odrasse’s face was grim as he looked at the 
ground, but it cleared with an immense relief as he 
raised his eyes upward. 

“Didn’t get many,” he said; turned back and 
called, repeating reassuringly, “Didn’t get many, 
Berne. Got some. But didn’t get many. Most 
of them saved. Did you stop them, you and 
Caleb?” he asked Daniel. “Gosh! I’m glad!” 

Then Flame came. 

Her face was white and distorted. The flow¬ 
ing oriflamme of her hair in the sunlight was not 
more burning than her eyes as she looked at the 
dead and dying birds. Dan saw the woman who 
had been the child that struck him. 

“Flame!” he cried, and, not caring who heard 
him, “Flame, my dear, my dear!” 

Odrasse started. 

“There aren’t many dead,” he said, and with 


RED DAWN 


261 

generous pleasure, “Barde drove the men away; 
Barde and Caleb.” 

Berne looked at them gratefully but had not time 
yet to rejoice, as she soon would do, that Daniel 
had been her birds’ champion. Now her eyes and 
heart was flaming with anger* because of those 
birds that had suffered. 

“Who were they? Where did they go? Did 
you see them?” she asked. Her voice was unlike 
itself, keen, quick, rather terrible. 

They outlined to her what had happened. 

“Caleb,” she commanded. “Go to the Sheriff. 
Take my horse. Tell them to arrest Borel Veriot. 
I’ll stand for it. I'll testify against him. And 
that man who’s been around with him. You know. 
And tell him about the one you’ve caught in the 
hut. Odrasse, ride Vitesse as hard as she’ll go to 
Mr. Ned. Tell him. Ask State agents to come, 
or whatever he thinks best. Tell him to have Bo¬ 
rel Veriot arrested if he goes back home. My re¬ 
sponsibility. Have his mother questioned, watched. 
She lied to me. Oh!” As they hastened to 
obey, suddenly her voice weakened; she broke and 
cried like a little girl. “O Commodore! I be¬ 
trayed them for you. If you’d only let me tell 
Mr. Ned! They’re going to starve! O Da! I 
let those devils in. They’re going to starve,—the 
little birds!” She pulled herself together. “But 
thank God you saved the others, you and Caleb! 
I’m so glad, Da! Caleb, I’m so glad!” 


262 


COME HOME 


Obar was calling, arriving in his slow buggy. 

Daniel put his arms about Berne. His heart 
was aching and rejoicing for her, and for himself it 
was saying, in stronger beats than he had ever 
heard, “She can care like this for the nests of 
birds. And how much will you do, son, for your 
own nest?” 

He led her silently to Obar. 

As the three rode home, crowded close in the 
buggy, Obar said haltingly, when Berne cried again 
about the starving fledglings, “We will implore the 
good St. Francois, Berne, that he will keep them 
from suffer'. Then they will die so soft like flow¬ 
ers. Eh, chere? Noalie will pray the good St. 
Francois. He love’ the birds; is it not? And 
they are very efficacious, the prayers of Noalie.” 

Berne recovered her poise; sat white and 
straight and still, braiding her flowing hair, obli¬ 
vious now, even of Daniel's presence. She was 
thinking of poor Commodore; the shock this would 
be to him. 

They all sat in thought, good Obar’s duckings 
to his old horse and the little urging fillips of the 
reins the only sounds until they reached lie Imagi- 
naire. 

Then she said, “You will come in with me, Da? 
Please.” He was glad she wanted him. 

The family and Martin had just finished break¬ 
fast when they arrived. They saw that something 
was wrong; rose, exclaiming, questioning. 


RED DAWN 


263 


Berne's self-control broke again; she burst upon 
them like a flame indeed and cried, “They’ve been 
slaughtering the birds. Plume hunters. The 
Prowler, Commodore ! Probably Burden’s agents, 
Landry!” 

Steadying herself, not heeding the exclamations 
and questions, she went on in her clear voice, “I’ve 
sent word to Mr. Ned, Commodore. Had to, now. 
I had to, dear.” She was so sorry for him! “And 
I’ve sent to the authorities. I’ve told them to ar¬ 
rest Borel Veriot and—the Prowler, Commodore. 
I had to.” 

He bowed his head. Yes; she had to. Even 
then he did not doubt the reality of the hidden 
treasure. If they took the Prowler, it might mean 
losing it. The map! Prowler had the map. Mr. 
La Grande could not afford to start again, and he 
did not know how near the Pool to dig. Perhaps 
that was not the place at all; Prowler was slip¬ 
pery; perhaps it was only for herons he wanted that 
strip and the treasure was elsewhere. Only Prow¬ 
ler knew. But, of course, Flame had to. Commo¬ 
dore was courageous, though his lips turned blue. 

“Yes, dear; you—had—to,” he assented. 

“Martin, will you do something for me?” 
Berne asked. 

“Anything, Berne.” And at the way Martin 
said it, Dan started as Odrasse had done at Dan’s 
own tone in the forest. 

“Go to New Orleans now. You can just make 


264 


COME HOME 


the train if you go now, without waiting for any¬ 
thing. A man named Judson Burden—” 

“Camille!” Landry cried. 

“Find him and find out about him. From the 
North,—try the hotels. Keep him watched. If 
he has anything to do with feathers, plumage, have 
him arrested, if you can; anyway watched. Even 
if he goes away—” 

“Camille; no! You must not, Martin!” Lan¬ 
dry said. “Wait! Listen. I know about him. 
It’s already done, Berne. It's all over. What's 
the good—” 

“Martin, please! You've just time to get the 
train if you go now ” She was near the breaking 
point. 

“I’m off,” said Martin and ran for his hat. 

“Will you drive him, Da? Take that auto in 
the barn. Hope will show you. Hurry! Hurry!” 

Dan and Martin ran to the car. 

Landry had not dared explain his predicament 
before them. But now that they had gone, he 
turned furiously to his sister. 

“You’re ruining me!” he cried. “Do you hear? 
Ruining me! That’s what you’ve done. You’ve 
ruined me,—all of us, maybe. Mater!” He 
turned to his mother like a small boy in trouble. 
“That man,—the man Camille is sending Martin 
after,—can ruin me. Like that! Will, too. If 
Camille goes on—” 


RED DAWN 265 

“It’s the law, Lan,” his father said unsteadily. 
“If he’s broken the law, we must —” 

“He can disgrace me, I tell you! Oh! Of 
course, I haven’t done anything; don’t look like 
that! But he can make it appear—different. It 
isn’t only the money. If that were all! That’s 
why I didn’t dare mention that he was—” he 
stopped, confused. 

“Landry!” Berne cried sharply. “Did you 
know he was after plumes?” 

“That’s the thanks I get! When I nearly 
ruined myself trying to save those birds for you. 
No; I didn’t know he was still after them. He 
swore he wouldn’t kill them; promised me; so there 
wasn’t any need to tell you. If you hadn’t been 
so hasty; exposed him to Martin! Too late to do 
any good. And we don’t know anything against 
him—” 

“You do, Landry,” his father said with sad de¬ 
cision. 

But the Mater spoke quickly. “Quiet, Lan!” 
putting her arm about him. “Berne didn’t know 
it was that serious to you. How could she? 
We’re all excited now and can’t think clearly. 
Of course, nothing’s going to happen to you, honey. 
It’s not too late to keep Martin from acting. We 
can wire him or telephone when he gets to the city. 
No harm done! Don’t worry, dear. Wait till 
you’re calmer; and tell us all about it.” 


266 


COME HOME 


Mr. La Grande tried to protest feebly, “I will 
not shield a wrong-doer,” and sank back in his 
chair. 

“Poor Commodore!” Berne said softly. 

But Peter went to his sister, took her hand. 
“Darn shame, Sis! ’Bout the birds,” he said, and 
as she leaned toward him he whispered, “Please 
don’t feel so bad. When I grow up I’ll make a 
big preserve on this place, like Mr. Ned’s,—for 
all the herons—and everything } Sis!” 

When he grew up,—on this place! Could she 
save the place for Peter? 

Singsie came to the door. “Didn’t none of you- 
all hear the telephome; so I answered it. It’s fo’ 
Miss Berne.” 

It was Judge Julien Le Boeuf who telephoned and 
he said to her, “I have looked up what you asked 
me, chere. My dear child, I must report— helas! 
—that it seems very necessary indeed that the rice 
crop should be good. You understand? Cour¬ 
age! My dear girl! The ‘harvest is in Good 
Hands.” 

“Thank—you,— Oncle —Jubat.” 

While Berne sat beside the telephone table list¬ 
lessly, almost too weary to feel, Dan accompanying 
Martin to the train, told him what had happened 
in the woods. 

Martin said, “Wish I’d been in on that.” 

“Oh! You are a real help!” said Daniel. 


RED DAWN 267 

Martin smiled; he liked his transparent young rival. 
“Flame is always saying so.” 

“Flame?” thought Martin. Flame to Dan 
Barde. To him she was always Canctidissima- 
candidissima ,—the w r hitest, brightest, frankest,— 
the name of her own favorite herons. 

Yes; she could depend on Pinckney, Daniel 
thought again, as, having left Martin on the train, 
he walked up the oak-shaded walk to Grandpere’s. 
Pinckney had something to offer. Well, by George, 
he’d go on “playing the game.” He smiled rue¬ 
fully. 

At the door, he turned, hearing the unmistakable 
hoof beats of Vitesse. He hailed Odrasse. 

As Daniel came towards him, Odrasse said, “She 
all right? I told Mr. Ned.” 

“Is he to be at home all day to-day?” 

“Mr. Ned? He was. Can’t tell where he’ll be 
now,—after this. Why?” 

“I’m going there. Want to see him.” 

“You better rest, Dan,” solicitously. “Look 
tired.” 

“Am tired. But I must see Mr. Ned.” 

•“Why, I told him everything.” 

“I want to see him about something else, 
’Drasse.” Dan looked up, with his usual light smile 
masking an unusual eagerness. “Want to ask him 
for a job—in the Salt Mine. Think he’ll give me 
one?” 


268 


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Odrasse looked at him anxiously. 

“No. I’m not feverish.” Dan laughed. 

“Then you’re joking.” 

“No, sir. Out for a job. Any old job in the 
Salt Mine. Mines are all I know, ’Drasse, and 
I want-—to work. Here.” 

Odrasse was silent; then, generous. “Dan,” he 
said. “That—that’s—right. I’m glad, Dan. 
Honest to God, I’m glad!” 

It astonished himself; but he liked Dan Barde 
as well—almost—as he liked Berne. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


HOPE AGAINST HOPE 

J UD BURDEN’S partner and his bird slaugh¬ 
terers made an easy escape in the automobile 
Berne had heard so early in the day. 

It was believed that Borel Veriot and the man 
called Prowler had gone with them. 

Mme. Veriot, smiling tearfully, insisted that her 
son had gone to employment in the city. That man 
who was so interested in her good boy had offered 
it, and her poor son, ill as he was,—he was so in¬ 
dustrious !—got up from his bed, yes, and went off 
with him. The address? Helas? She could not 
say. But, without doubt, her excellent Borel wmuld 
soon write to his mother,—and, then, if they were 
still interested, she w r ould inform them. 

She closed the screen door of her cottage, a 
screen so torn that she might as well have left it 
open, and retired into the wide hall where a half¬ 
witted boy sat, grinning, on the dirty floor. Her 
broad back turned to the interrogators, madame 
grinned, too. 

The mulatto called Jim, if he could, would tell 

nothing; sat sullenly in jail. 

269 


270 


COME HOME 


Even Mr. Ned and the wardens, unable to find 
Borel or the Prowler, supposed they had escaped. 

Mr. La Grande was now forced to believe the 
treasure-hunt a ruse, a “blind.” His nervous weari¬ 
ness and the sense of failure, the thought of the 
money he had given these deceivers, made him a 
pathetic figure, the more so for the high-bred cour¬ 
age and gentleness with which he bore his trouble. 
It must be a ruse, he thought,—and yet, that letter, 
the map! He could not quite disbelieve, even yet. 
But he must disbelieve. Perhaps,—later! At 
any rate, he was glad he had confided in no one but 
Flame. 

But the treasure-hunt was not a ruse, nor had the 
two men abandoned it. They were still within a 
day’s reach of Pool o’ the Moon. 

Borel, who had often poached oysters, hunted 
out of season and committed other acts that made 
hiding-places convenient, knew all the reedy inlets, 
islands and back-waters of the coast, the intake into 
every swamp, and every deserted club-house, bath¬ 
house and hunters’ cover. 

Having made careful preparations to escape and 
“lie low” after the plume-hunt, whether it were suc¬ 
cessful or not, the two had gone that day by pirogue 
to the edge of the sw^amp and then had hastened by 
cross-cuts and behind hedges to the lower reaches 
of the bayou where, in the high reeds, another 
canoe was hidden. This brought them to one of 
the many small streams that lay like strands of a 


HOPE AGAINST HOPE 


271 


spider-web about Vermilion Bay. There, was con¬ 
cealed an old motor-skiff, bought down the coast 
by Prowler, with Mr. La Grande’s money. They 
had not dared take it into the bayou, where every 
boat and all the owners were well known to the 
dwellers along shore. 

No one had thought, at first, to look for them in 
the lower reed marshes; it was supposed that the 
automobile had taken Prowler away and that Borel, 
if he had been left behind, would have hidden nearer 
his home. 

The bay was empty of men when they reached 
it; only a huge sleepy pelican on a post and a 
“water turkey” roused by their engine, eyed them 
suspiciously. 

The Prowler and Borel soon glided through the 
Southwest Pass into Gulf waters and then into a 
marsh lagoon, unfrequented, a labyrinth in tall 
reeds. There, an old hut on stilts was hidden by 
a mass of towering canes and the scrub oaks on 
shell islands. 

Here they would wait until the search had 
cooled. Then slip back to the Pool o’ the Moon, 
by night, and one last “try” for treasure. 

Fish was plentiful and Borel had stocked the 
cabin. 

“Once they quit looking for us, we’ll be safer’n 
ever,” Prowler said. “With the bird-hunting all 
done for, that red-head and her beaux won’t be 
hanging around there in the woods. And nobody 


272 


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else does. And the old man’ll think we’ve got away 
and that I lied to him about everything. Besides, 
he’s broke. I’m sure of the spot now; since I dug 
up that hinge. I was gettin’ discouraged myself 
till then. But a hinge—like that —with that on 
it! But we’ll have to move quick when we move.” 

“And you wasn’t going have me to know about 
that money and stuff!” Borel began his old com¬ 
plaint. 

“How d’ye know I wasn’t? Chuck that line; 
will you? Just wasn’t ready yet to tell you.” 

“You only told me ’cause I heard what Monsieur 
La Grande say to his ’moiselle, Miss Berne. When 
you had to tell him to me. Out!” Borel muttered. 

He was maintaining this injured pose in the hope 
of getting the Prowler to confide in him exactly 
where the treasure lay. Then Borel would leave 
him in the cabin as he slept. He and his bosom 
friend, Oreste, they would do this digging. Oreste 
was waiting for a call from Borel. And off there 
by Panther Island, would soon come his brother 
Beque in a boat. If there was treasure in the Big 
Woods,—a thousand devils!—should a stranger se¬ 
cure it? And one who had tried to deceive Borel? 
He was not the fool this man supposed; not at all! 
But first he should know exactly,—did it lie in the 
mound beside the Pool o’ the Moon, or at the foot 
of the mound, and at which side? They would 
have no time to lose, he and Oreste. He'd get that 


HOPE AGAINST HOPE 


273 


map, if he could. But this was a shrewd one; he 
must be wary. 

Jud Burden had given Borel money to get away 
afterwards, and Borel had had the sense to en¬ 
trust it to Oreste, who had the blood of a snail 
and no bad habits. 

A grand gentleman, Mr. Burden! He did not 
ask anything for himself. Only he, too, wanted to 
punish this man here for concealing the affair from 
him, and maybe,—Borel could use his eyes !—maybe 
to punish also the La Grandes. 

He had heard him, “Look down on Jud Burden; 
will they? Well, not if the court knows itself. 
When there's any condescending to do, I’ll do it 
myself. Poor as Job’s turkey and holding up her 
head like the Queen of Sheba! Stump me; will 
she? Nothing doing, miss; nothing doing!” And 
again, “If there’s nothing in this, it will cost them 
a lot for nothing—and that’s a joke. And if there 
is anything in it, it’ll tickle me to do them both out 
of it.” Borel understood him; what Burden liked 
was power. 

Burden, too, had gone, leaving no address. 
Martin, who kept on his trail with cautious inquir¬ 
ies, in spite of Mater’s telegram calling him off, 
found that Burden was in the feather trade, but 
was not expected at his home office in Chicago. He 
was going, they said there, to Venezuela, a great 
heron country. 


2 74 


COME HOME 


In any case, it would be hard to prove his con¬ 
nection with the raid on the Crown of Cypress, with 
the actual slayers out of reach and his alibi assured. 
Only Landry could testify against him; and Landry 
would not. He still had hopes of Burden’s “com¬ 
ing through.” 

Berne and her father felt that they must leave 
Landry’s affair to Landry’s conscience. Knowing 
Burden to be far away, and unconscious of the prox¬ 
imity of Prowler and Borel, the anxious family 
were discussing the-problem as they rested in the 
cool living-room at noonday. 

“It isn’t as if I could prove his complicity,” Lan¬ 
dry said. “Even if I did tell that he wanted to 
buy the heronry! He didn’t buy it. That doesn’t 
say nobody else was on the same job. Oh, morally 
sure; yes! But if we can’t prove anything, what 
earthly use— Look here, Camille; I’m worried 
sick. Can’t you see I’m worried sick? What’s the 
use of putting every chance away when maybe he 
didn’t do it, anyway, or, even if he did, we’d have 
trouble proving it? And now that it’s over! If 
I’d told in time to prevent, that w r ould have been 
different. But I didn’t think— And he gave me 
his word he’d come through now on those purchases. 
So!” All Landry’s self-complacency was shattered; 
he looked like a frightened boy in a scrape. “Don’t 
you care as much about me as for a lot of dead 
birds, Camille?” 

Berne’s eyes filled. This harassed brother moved 


HOPE AGAINST HOPE 


275 


her love more than did his smug accustomed self. 

“More than all the birds in the world, dear!” 
She sat on the window-seat beside him, put her 
hand on his shoulder. 

“Well, then, see where you’d put me in! 
They’ll think I should have told. Mr. Ned’ll 
say— And Mr. Jonas— Anyway, I won’t tes¬ 
tify to what Burden told me. I don’t care what 
you think. I believe there’s a chance. And I 
won’t throw it away. There’s nothing to be gained 
by it.” Landry gave Berne a shamed but deter¬ 
mined stare. 

“It’s up to you, Lanny. Now, let’s see what we 
can do,—if Burden doesn’t send that money.” 

“He will. He said he would. He gave me his 
word.” 

“He gave you his word he wouldn’t hunt plumes, 
too.” 

“Why, Berne! Don’t be cruel!” Mater inter¬ 
jected. “Let him hope, at least.” 

“Indeed, yes. And I hope, too, Mater. But 
if Burden shouldn’t? Where do we stand?” 

“Why not cross that bridge when we come to it?” 
her father asked. 

“Want to be sure there’ll be a bridge there, Com¬ 
modore. Just what does it mean, Lan? Besides 
this man’s having your note?” 

“Just a devil of a mess. Nobody’s fault. I’d 
done business with him,—came just when I needed 
it. And Raoul and Janney and Tom Corbin told 


276 


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me at lunch one day they’d each bought a lot of 
Mundane Company Stock. It’s an unlisted local 
stock, slow but good. And they wanted to get rid 
of it and would give me a big commission if I could 
sell it quickly. And Burden was looking for some¬ 
thing like that and promised on his word he’d take 
it in a month, when he’d unloaded something else. 
Gave me his word. So I didn’t ask him to sign. 
I know I ought—but anybody, under the circum¬ 
stances— Then I told the fellows it was a sure 
deal and that I was sort of strapped. And they 
let me have the commissions in advance. Just 
beastly luck. Anybody’d have done it. Seemed 
perfectly sure. He knew I was getting the money; 
told me to go ahead. Now,—it means I’d have to 
go to all those fellows and tell them I took their 
commissions and used them—without being sure of 
the sale; and couldn’t give the money back.” He 
choked, had to pause a moment. “Swell chance 
I’ll have of succeeding in New Orleans after that! 
Or of it's being kept quiet. You know Tom Cor¬ 
bin! Talks so much. He’s mean and never liked 
me. Oh, I don't think anybody'd actually—take 
steps!” 

“Landry!” from his mother. 

“I say I don’t think they would, Mater. All 
supposed to be friends of mine,—even Tom. But 
it could make me lose my seat. And I’d have to 
give them all notes and I have already more notes 


HOPE AGAINST HOPE 


277 


than I can meet. It puts me out of business; that’s 
all.” 

Berne patted his hand, sitting with brows bent. 

“I’ll just have to leave town, Camille. Go 
somewhere else and start over.” 

“Why not start here, Landry? At Imaginaire?” 

He gave a short laugh. “Not much I Couldn’t 
make it go anyway. You couldn’t!” 

“Quelle idee!” her mother said. “This place is 
at the base of all our troubles.” 

“Kind o’ good thing there’s something solid at 
the base,” said Berne. 

“You don’t seem to have made a great resource 
of it,” Mater rejoined. 

Berne winced. “These crops are the only real 
things we’ve got, at any rate,” she said. “But 
you’re right.” She paused, pressed her lip. “I’ve 
been a failure here. Didn’t know enough, I 
reckon.” Again she stopped for control. “If it 
hadn’t been for Mr. Jonas I know I’d have failed— 
worse.” Not a word of her father’s part in the 
“failure” or the heavy odds against her; but he 
felt it, hung his head. “But in a few years 
Peter’ll make it pay us. He’s going to know —not 
feel his way. He’s going to agricultural college 
—as Landry wouldn’t,—and be a real planter, 
worthy of—of respect,—like Mr. Jonas,—like Mr. 
Ned.” 

“Peter! An infant! And under your influence! 


278 


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He’ll want to be a dozen things before he chooses 
one. Once Lan wanted to be a street-car con¬ 
ductor,” the Mater laughed. 

“What good, my dears? Why harass your¬ 
selves? Trouble enough. And the crops are our 
last chance, daughter.” 

“Last chance is right,” Landry said. “We’ll be 
lucky if we have any plantation when this is all 
over.” 

Berne blanched. “That is true.” 

“Cheerful pair, you two!” Mater laughed. “Ring 
for the hearse!” 

“Mater, you’re wonderful!” Berne’s eyes shone 
admiringly, at her mother’s gaiety under these 
cares. 

“As if my little daughter didn’t know why!” 
archly. 

“I don’t, Mater.” 

“Suppose I can’t see what's occurring between 
you and Martin?” 

“Oh! —You’re mistaken, Mater! We’re just 
friends. If that’s why you're serene,—I’m so 
sorry!” 

“Friends? Tell that to somebody who hasn’t 
known Martin all his life. Friends? The man’s 
completely in love with you.” 

“Oh, no, dear!” clasping her hands. 

“Oh, yes, dear,” laughing. 

“Even I can see that,” her father smiled. 

“Anybody can see it,” Mater said. “And pretty 


HOPE AGAINST HOPE 


279 


near everybody has. So! Does that thrill you?” 
gently teasing. 

“I must find out,” Berne said. “I must ask 
him.” 

“You must what?” Mater was aghast. 

Berne scarcely heard her. What a horrible 
thing if this were so! Good Martin! But she 
was not going to let this friendship go without be¬ 
ing sure. Oh! of course, they were all wrong! 
Poor Mater!” 

“Berne doesn’t care anything for Pinckney,” Lan¬ 
dry volunteered from his depth of gloom. “She’s 
head over heels in love with Dan Barde.” 

Mater sprang to her feet. “Are you?” she cried. 
“Are you fool enough to prefer—” 

“Need we discuss my preferences, Mater? Sort 
of antique, having a family council on that!” She 
tried to smile. 

But Mater was frightened. She had believed 
her pet project was succeeding, would save all. 
Now the family cares and fears crowded in upon 
her, this barrier down. As she sank back in her 
chair, white and tragic before the disappointment, 
Berne was moved by an overwhelming pity. 

“Mater dear,” she said. “Martin and I tried 
not to mislead you. We can’t help it that we are 
not in love with each other.” 

“He is in love.” 

“Well,—supposing! I can’t help it, then, that 
I’m not.” 


28 o 


COME HOME 


“Any girl could love Martin Pinckney. Many 
girls do! He is—” 

“Everything splendid. No, Mater. Not for 
me. Mater, dear!” She went over to her moth¬ 
er’s chair, knelt beside it. 

“What are we to do? What are we to do?” 
Mater cried, wringing her hands. “You little 
idiot! How can Dan Barde marry you? He—” 

“He can’t, of course.’’ 

“Just because he was wounded,—childhood sweet¬ 
hearts! I never dreamed you were a romantic! 
For an idler, a boy! And Martin Pinckney!” 

“Please, Mater dear! I’m not marrying any¬ 
body” 

Mr. La Grande, who was a romantic himself, 
roused himself to his daughter’s defense. 

“There, there, ma mie!” he said to his wife. 
“We surely would not want Flame to marry for 
possessions!” 

“Certainly not! But she would have cared for 
Martin, if this silly idea of Dan— She could 
send him off now,—as there’s nothing in it; she’s 
just said so herself. If she cared for us, she’d try, 
if only for Peter she poses so about!” 

“This is horrible,” her father persisted, firm for 
once; it anguished his sensibilities. “Please stop, 
my dear! You are excited now, disappointed. 
Stop and think. You want our girl to marry whom 
she loves,—or not at all. Surely.” 

His opposition and the inner knowledge that 


HOPE AGAINST HOPE 


281 

he was right brought the Mater to hysteria. 

“Love! I married for love!” she sobbed. “And 
see what I got for it—” his agonized face gave 
her pause. 

“Mater is just upset, Commodore” Berne said. 
“People say a heap when they feel like that. Come 
on outside, Landry.” 

“ * Landry* f You ought to call Landry! You 
won’t even try to care for the best man you know! 
But Lan has to give up Helen Jeffrey—” 

“Coming, Landry?” Berne suggested, her anx¬ 
ious eyes on her father’s quivering face. 

Landry followed her. As they turned at the 
door, they saw Mater throw herself in her husband’s 
arms. 

“I didn’t mean that! You know I didn’t. It 
was just because Berne—How could you think I 
meant it?” she sobbed, and he was soothing her 
with caresses. 

But Landry had no comfort for his sister. 

“Why don’t Dan go home and go to work?” he 
asked her. 

“He has gone to work. At the Salt Mine.” 

“A joke, that. How long will it last?” He 
laughed. 

“Never mind. Mater mean anything, Lanny, 
about Helen Jeffrey?” 

“How can I ask her to marry me, now? Prob¬ 
ably never.” 

“Want to?” 


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“Never knew how much till I couldn’t.” 

“Think Elodi—understands?” 

“Got no reason to misunderstand. Of course, I 
do like that child,—a lot.” 

“Better be sure she understands, Lan.” 

“Why?” 

Berne shrugged. She did not intend to flatter 
his vanity. Then, smiling a little, “Here comes 
one good reason, now.” 

Odrasse appeared down the road on Vitesse, 
cantering toward them. 

“Landry,” Berne said. “Here’s a queer thing. 
Mater would be glad of my marrying Martin, if he 
asked me, he being rich, I poor, even if I didn’t— 
care very deeply. But she understands that you 
can’t ask Helen, who has heaps of money, to marry 
you,—though you’re fond of her. Why?” 

“Because I’m a man, of course,” Landry said. 

Berne’s lips twitched upward. 

She went to meet Odrasse, who cried out eagerly, 
“Berne, can you give me a minute, now? Dan 
Barde found something—found out something. 
About Borel. About the woods. About Pool o’ 
the Moon.” 

She led him into Elodi’s arbor. 

When, in a little while, they left it, her face was 
shining with a half-hope through its weariness. 
Suppose after all, this incredible dream, should be 
true! 


HOPE AGAINST HOPE 283 

She found her father alone in the window-seat 
with a cup of coffee. 

“Commodore,” she said to him. “Will you drive 
to Noalie’s with me this afternoon? No; vou’re 
not too tired,” smiling. “Because it’s news,—of 
Pool o’ the Moon. You are not to hope too much, 
please, honey!” as she saw in his face the sanguine 
rush to which he was too susceptible. “But, never¬ 
theless, there is news of Pool o’ the Moon. The 
boys have found what may be a sort of clue. They 
can’t tell us here just now, very well, of course.” 
He recognized that, with Mater home, and Landry. 
“They’ll tell us all about it at Noalie’s. Don’t get 
too excited. And, please, rest now, until I call 
you.” 

“You rest, too, Flame dear. You’re sort of 
white and wan, to-day. I never saw the suns so 
clearly,—or the constellation,” Commodore’s teas¬ 
ing names for her dark-amber eyes and the little 
line of golden freckles across the bridge of her 
nose. 

“Yes; I think I’d better,” she agreed. “I am 
tired to-day. Guess I’ll climb up the steps to 
Peter’s new tree-house, with some accounts, and go 
over them.” 

“Is that resting?” 

“Oh! It’s restful up there, among the nests. 
And, anyway, Uncle Hope says, ‘Boat makes better 
time than the mule in the end, ’cause boat keeps 


284 


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on going In its sleep.’ ” She laughed and left 
him. 

But she found that he was right; she was too 
tired to work just then. She was glad to let the 
papers lie idle in her lap, as she sat in the big oak’s 
branches on the platform built as a play-house for 
Peter; glad to sit there in the breeze, among the 
leaves and mosses, her back against the oak, and 
rest—and think. 

She wondered why Daniel did not come to play. 
She missed him. Was it just because of his work 
at the mine, where Mr. Ned had set him to making 
a survey? No; for there were the beautiful eve¬ 
nings and Dan’s working hours were not long. 
Could it be because he was guarding himself and 
her,—she smiled,—from growing to care more than 
was safe for them since he was going away soon? 
Or was it just injured pride because of what she 
had said to him? Not like Dan to sulk; but she 
w r as sorry to have angered him, to have injured his 
pride. She knew she spoke bluntly sometimes, too 
bluntly, perhaps,—that red-headed temper acting 
after all, maybe, in spite of her restraint. Had she 
misjudged him, over-stressed his indolence, per¬ 
haps? 

She was proud, proud, proud, of what he had 
done in the heronry, saving her birds, of his re¬ 
sourcefulness and courage, of which Caleb had told 
Odrasse and Odrasse, the La Grandes. Her heart 
sang when she thought of that; but there was a 


HOPE AGAINST HOPE 


285 


sting in it, too. For when she had called Dan on 
the telephone to say how grateful and proud she 
was, his laughing voice had protested, “Don’t make 
a heap of it, honey. Thanks be they didn’t get all 
your pretty birds. But for me it was just—a lot of 
fun.” Was that merely true,—or was he remem¬ 
bering what she had said to him? 

Berne had no subtlety. She just knew she was 
glad Dan had saved the birds, sorry she had hurt 
him, half-grieved and half-happy to believe that— 
perhaps—she had misjudged him, still fearing lest 
what she had said to him of himself were so. But, 
whether or not, it was right not to have bound him 
to her perplexities; of that she felt sure. 

The mine was closed that afternoon, during 
repairs in the electrical wiring, and Daniel, await¬ 
ing Odrasse’s return from lie Imaginaire, was 
sitting on the steps of the General’s “gallery,” at 
the end of the stately avenue of oaks, chatting with 
Grandpere in the armchair above him. His horse 
was tied at the gate, ready for the ride with 
Odrasse. 

“Can’t last forever, though, sir,—that job in the 
mine,” said Daniel gently. “Then, I’m afraid there 
won’t be any excuse for my—staying here any more. 
Be mighty sorry to go, sir.” He did not dare look 
at his grandfather, knowing how he was hurting 
him. 

“Of course, you must live your life,” said that 
old soldier without flinching. 


286 


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“O Grandpere!” Dan cried impulsively. “I 
wish I could stay here!” 

“Why?” 

Dan did not answer that, just smiled affectionately 
at the old gentleman, opened his arms sweepingly, 
indicating “everything” by his gesture. 

“Not just for—Berenicia—and, perhaps, me?” 

“I love it all,” said Daniel. “It seems to belong 
to me.” 

“Ah!” 

“But I’ve got to go to work, sir. Done with 
loafing. I believe I’d like to play at work now.” 

“Play at it?” 

“Yes, sir. I’ll work better, if I play. But for 
the rest of mv life, Grandpere! Oh! Listen, sir! 
I want to tell you all about it.” 

And with the embarrassment of a younger man 
unveiling himself to an elder, Dan bared his heart 
to his Grandpere. 

The General listened, his hands on his cane, his 
eyes on the half-averted handsome head below him. 

“I’m going to work. Have to be in Colorado, I 
suppose, if they’ll take me back,” Dan said at last. 
“Grandpere f do you think I’m really just a floater, 
do you think I’m a trifle light as air, because I’ve 
been content to play around with my mother?” 

The General hated this boy’s mother; but he 
loved and honored womankind; so he said, great- 
heartedly, “No. I think it’s a fine thing to have 
made your mother happy.” 


HOPE AGAINST HOPE 


287 


“Why, Grandpere!” 

“I have no doubt of your future. You do play 
the game; and that’s a way of life. But it ought 
to be a man’s game now, mon fils. You played 
your—other people’s game, because, I find myself 
thinking, you had none of your own to play. It is 
time to make your—other people happy now, if 
you can, but without silencing your own life within, 
it would seem. For a man that is the main duty, 
not to—” 

“Put out the Flame Within?” 

“So. A boy plays many lives; but a man must 
play his own life. That is what he must play. 
Now that love—may I say?—has transmuted the 
boy into a man, a man’s game you must play. That 
is why you want to work now for Berenicia.” 

“Whether or not, Grandpere. I want to work.” 

“You must forgive Berenicia. She—” 

“Forgive! She was right. She woke me up.” 

“How far awake?” 

“Sir?” 

“How far awake?” You want Berenicia?” 

“Oh! But I want her happy more. And there’s 
Pinckney. And, besides,—and maybe this is reason 
enough, all alone, by itself,” Gal-Da grinned. “The 
wise little lady said she wouldn’t have me.” 

“You want Berenicia and you love to stay in this 
place. There is a flame within your family, my 
son. Bardes get what they want.” But he added 
sympathetically in his own mind, “Except when their 


288 


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will is opposed by your mother; I know. But I’ll 
fight her in this boy now, by the help of heaven.” 

Dan half-read his thought, was silent a long 
while, then, “You find me a Barde, Grandpere?” 

“Yes. At base. The superstructure is a little 
more decorated than is usual with us,” Grandpere 
chuckled. “But the foundations are of the old 
cypress,—and sound.” 

“Thank you. Honestly, I think they are, Grand - 
pere” 

“Son of my son!” said Grandpere tenderly, and 
a tear fell on his hands. 

Daniel heard Vitesse’s quick steps and Odrasse’s 
whistle. He rose to join him; half-way to the gate 
he halted, arrested by a thought. 

As they rode off together, he said to his friend, 
“If there’s time, ’Drasse, let’s make a detour and 
ride around to the old Barde plantation,—that used 
to be Barde. I feel that I'd like to look at the 
place to-day.” 


CHAPTER XIX 


CLOSING IN 

O UT on their secret marsh islet, Borel had 
at last persuaded the Prowler to tell him 
where he believed the treasure lay. 

There seemed no longer any reason for concealing 
it from him; they were going together to retrieve 
it soon. And Prowler greatly preferred to share 
his confinement with a good-humored companion; 
this place was getting on his nerves anyway and 
Borel, with his injured whine, was trying. 

Borel did become good-humored immediately, 
when he had what he wanted. He dug out of its 
cubby a hidden flask of out-lawed gin, shared it 
lavishly with Prowler; watched Prowler go to sleep, 
to sleep hard, in consequence. 

Then Borel rowed away in the motor-skiff, its 
engine dead, to where his brother, Beque, was wait¬ 
ing. After a quick passage with him, Borel rowed 
back to his sleeping mate, and Beque returned across 
the Bay and up the Bayou. 

Next day in the Salt Mine, Beque had brought a 
message to Oreste, his brother’s friend,—a strong, 

silent fellow, mistakenly called stupid. 

289 


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There, in those subterranean snowy passages and 
glittering colonnades, Daniel Barde, with the adap¬ 
tability that had been both blessing and bane to 
him, had entered the confidence of the miners; a 
considerable feat, for these people were suspicious 
of strangers and did not understand his presence 
among them, nor the object of his notebooks and 
“survey.” But they could not long resist his cheer¬ 
ful simplicity, especially when they found out that 
he was of “theirs.” The grandson of General 
Barde of Cureville,—General Odillon Barde’s 
descendant,—oh, that was altogether different; 
that! 

Their taciturnity once broken, they told him all 
they knew, with their voluble candor. Dan soon 
understood that Oreste was Borel’s intimate. As 
he went about with his charts and papers, making 
his survey of the mine for Mr. Ned, he kept a 
watchful eye upon him and upon Beque Veriot. 

Therefore, when he saw these two together in a 
sparkling corridor of salt,—like a cloister of white 
coral studded with multitudes of diamonds,—behind 
a shining salt column where neither of them just 
then had any reason to be, he stood still behind 
another pillar nearby. Though unseen by them, he 
pretended to be consulting his notebook. 

“Hate to ‘snoop’; but I reckon I’d better,” he 
said to himself. 

When he emerged casually, still reading, as if he 
had just come upon them, they separated quickly; 


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291 


Beque to disappear, Oreste to wait, regarding 
Daniel suspiciously. 

His calm manner satisfied Oreste, though Daniel 
was excited; for he had learned more than the news 
of Borel’s whereabouts for which he had been listen¬ 
ing. 

He hastened to Odrasse, and Odrasse to 
Berenicia; and now, in consequence, Mr. La Grande, 
his cheeks throbbing in two bright spots, and Berne, 
anxiously guarding him, met Odrasse and Daniel at 
conference in Obar’s little house, in the afternoon. 

Even in his own excitement, Mr. La Grande had 
to smile at Odrasse’s youthful love of a mystery; 
he could see that this secret meeting by the ferry 
thrilled the boy. 

Dan told them what he had overheard. “It is 
certain that Borel Veriot is in hiding in the marshes 
and will go with the others to the Pool o’ the Moon 
to-morrow night. If we have the Sheriff near, we 
can certainly take him, and I think,—I couldn’t get 
this quite straight,—that other man is still about, 
too.” 

Mr. La Grande’s gentle face hardened a little at 
the thought of Prowler. But if Prowler were still 
about, there could be but one reason for his linger¬ 
ing ! 

“Why is he there? Why does Borel intend to 
go, with the others, to the Pool o’ the Moon?” he 
asked. 

Berne put her hand on his. 


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Dan replied, “They said, sir, to get something 
that was —buried there. They said that Borel had 
made the man tell the exact place where it,—so 
they said,—had been located.” 

“Berne! Fiammetta!” cried her father. “You 
see, dear! Nothing is impossible,—in a country 
with such a background! Oh! My dear!” 

“Steady, Commodore!” she pled. “We’re not 
sure, you know. Let’s go slowly, honey.” 

Mr. La Grande controlled his excitement. “You 
are entitled to know why I hope,” he said to the 
others. “Will you let me have some water, 
rnadame? Then I will tell you.” 

He confided in Daniel, Odrasse, Obar and Noalie 
the secret of Marcel Narcisse and his Shadow,—a 
story already known in part to Odrasse, for the ill- 
fated Ombre-de-Marcel was his great-uncle,—and 
of the search for the treasure. 

When the eager inquiries had subsided and care¬ 
ful plans for the next night had been made, Berne 
drew Daniel out of doors. She said to him, as 
they stood on the little dock beside the ferry, in 
the mother-of-pearl twilight, “I’m worried about my 
father. If another disappointment should come 
now! I can't take stock in all this. It’s too 
fantastic. Of course, treasure has been found. 
But it never seems to happen to any one you know, 
—like being struck by lightning. And, of course, 
we all grow up on the idea of pirates’ treasure. 
Peter and the little boys are always either finding 


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293 


treasure or burying some. You and I did, too. 
But for adults to take it seriously! What makes 
you trust it, Dan?” 

“I’m not sure I do trust it. It does seem impos¬ 
sible. But, after you left me, honey, that day in 
the woods ,—that day, Flame!” 

“Yes; what happened then?” 

“All right. I’ll be a Spartan, resist the twilight 
and stick to the story.” He laughed. “Stop look¬ 
ing at the lady, Dan, and keep your eye on the 
narrative. Just after you left me, I heard some¬ 
body in the distance; but it sounded nearby; you 
know how strangely sounds come and go in those 
swamps. I found it pretty far off when I tried to 
follow it, first in the canoe and later in the mire. 
The voices had stopped but I had the direction 
and soon heard them again at the dry end of the 
woods,—that spooky place.” 

“Pool o’ the Moon.” 

“Yes. You’d just let slip a hint about treasure, 
you know. So, of course, I was eager. I acted as 
pirate-tale as I knew how and had slid out of the 
boat and crawled along and snaked over a mound 
and peeked. And I saw that man of whom Odrasse 
was suspicious—” 

“The Prowler.” 

“Perfect name! I heard him sending that boy 
Borel away; it was evident that Borel didn’t want 
to go, but he finally slunk off. And after following 
him a while and waiting, the other one came back 


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and I heard him on the other side of the mound, 
digging , my child. Wasn’t that worth living for? 
Well, I wiggled about until I could see him. I 
tried not to take it too seriously. Till he found 
something.” 

“What did he find?” 

“He stood in the only opening, at the base of the 
mound. The Pool made a reflection behind him; 
so I could see it plainly.” He paused impressively. 

“Go on, Da. What did he find?” 

“It’s called dramatic suspense, beautiful.” 

“Please, Dan!” 

“Miss La Grande, then. I saw he had found an 
old rusty hinge, brass and heavy and obviously 
antique. Then,—” he paused. “Then!—It’s 
very unromantic. Then I—sneezed!” 

“Dan!” she laughed. 

“Yip. What would R. L. S. think of me? And 
he rolled a log a few feet and then, quick as he 
could, hurried from it, hid his tools and got away, 
taking his hinge with him. Looked all around; but 
I’d chosen my spot well and he never found me. 
It was so still that I couldn’t tell whether he’d 
actually left the woods or not; so / left warily. 
I meant to tell you about it, but they went for the 
birds and I decided the treasure was all nonsense 
and the hinge—just an old hinge. Besides, you’d 
indicated that I should leave the treasure idea alone 
until you’d asked Mr. La Grande to let me in on it. 
I supposed if anything were doing there, your 


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295 


father knew of it. But when I heard Beque in the 
mine telling Oreste it was sure and to meet Borel 
at the Pool to-morrow night, I felt that maybe 
my babyhood dream had come true. Remember 
how we used to dream brigands and treasure-trove? 
Speaking of dreams forlorn, mademoiselle y I’m a 
working man.” 

“So glad.” 

“And I like it. Mr. Ned, your Great Gentlemen, 
—well, that’s what he is! Just looked at me from 
the top of his great big still self in that great big 
quiet way he has, and never asked a single ques¬ 
tion; but seemed to get all I wanted to say, I hardly 
had to say it, even.” 

“He understands all creatures, however strange.” 

“Gave me work, as if it were the most natural 
request. And taught me! Say! That’s a cork¬ 
ing mine. Never knew salt could be so interesting!” 

“Your mother is willing to have you stay longer, 
—work there ?” 

“She’ll probably try to fetch me back, pronto. 
She isn’t going to succeed, though. Poor little 
Mums!” 

Berne could say nothing to that except, “It’s so 
splendid that you’re well, now; I’m sure that will 
make her happy. I’ll get my father home. He 
must be kept quiet as can be until to-morrow night. 
It will be a trial.” 

“Better not let him come out there himself.” 

“Oh, I’ll try not! He mustn’t.” 


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“No use asking you to keep away, I suppose?’ 

“I’ll keep away if he does, to stay with him. 
’Drasse is going to have the Sheriff come.” She 
set her lips. “Treasure or not, we’ll get those two 
for killing the birds. I dream about the fledg¬ 
lings !” 

“Do you? I don’t think I care for that. What 
a waste! You really ought not come to-morrow 
night, Flame. There may be danger.” 

“Oh! You be careful, Da!” He was startled 
by the pressure with which she grasped his arm. 

His voice grew husky. “I’ll be careful. Thank 
you. You know I’m well now. That day in the 
Cypress Crown proves it. Even in the midst of 
things, Caleb stopped to note w r hat a husky invalid 
I’d become.” 

“Fie says you were a wonder.” 

“Um. Every time he tells the story I get more 
and more so; in a year or two I'll be tying Hercu¬ 
les,—to hear Caleb tell it. Good old scout! 
Flame, I want to tell you something. You were 
right in thinking Fd been a frivolous young 
waster. No; don’t say anything! And you were 
right in preferring to rely on somebody who had 
made good.” Berne started, remembering her 
Mater’s idea. “I got wdiat you said about not car¬ 
ing to consider me a—candidate for glory. So 
that’s that, old lady. But I’d like to have you know 
that something’s kind of crackling in my mind. I 
think there’s a match at that kindling. Kind of 


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297 


feel that I’d like to keep my fire going, if I can, sort 
of bright and ready, whether I ever get a—hearth— 
for it or not. So I’m going to have a try at it. I’d 
like to tell you what I wrote to my mother, if you’ll 
listen.” 

“Listening.” 

“Told her I wanted to be her pal forever’n ever; 
but I tried to explain about the Flame Within and 
the nests—and that I couldn’t loaf again some¬ 
how; that it was that the War and the shell-shock, 
too, maybe,—and other things that shall be name¬ 
less,—had unfitted me for. I said I’d play with 
her always, but that her playground would have to 
be near my work.” 

She put out her hand; shook hands with him like 
a man. He had to chuckle; that was so like 
Berne! 

“I like the Salt Mine and I’m learning a lot; but 
Mr. Ned really made this place for me. I can see 
he won’t need me when the survey’s done. Of 
course, I can’t hold on here. So I’m going back to 
Colorado. 

“Dear, you said you were too disappointed in 
the man that baby-Da you’re—in love with,”— 
again the engaging grin that Berne loved,—“had 
grown up to be. Well, I don’t know how to say 
this without seeming conceited, when God knows 
that’s the opposite of how I feel. But the mem¬ 
ory of that kid-I-used-to-be,—I’ve been thinking 
this out hard,—is a sort of game you play with 



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your heart. Kind of fairy-story. You lonely lit¬ 
tle trump! ’Way off here! No dances or flirta¬ 
tions. Well, understanding that, as I think I do, 
I ought to tell you not to—to—let it keep you from 
any real thing. If conditions were different, eas¬ 
ier, for you, maybe I couldn’t seem to resign so 
heroically—what I ain’t never had.” Gai-Da tried 
to laugh. 

Berne was still. Then, with the unembarrassed 
directness so precious to him, “Are you thinking of 
Martin Pinckney, Da? Because I’m not going to 
fall in love with him. We’re friends.” 

He tried not to show relief. “You needn’t tell 
me, dear. Just took him as a bright example be¬ 
cause he looks to me easy to care for.” 

Berne held her lips tight. She would not let 
Daniel know how deeply she felt; it was better for 
him not to be bound, to go. If not, the Flame 
Within, would, please God, bring him back to her. 
Now, there was nothing to say. 

Dan waited, longing, against his judgment, for 
her to say something that would give him a glimmer 
of hope of her. Then he said lightly, “Might as 
well know, while I’m telling you the rest of it, that 
you’ve only to say, ‘a moi!’ at any time to me, 
blame dear, and good old Dan’ll come a-running. 
And there are no girls on earth but three: Camille, 
Berenicia, Marie. Here comes your father. Au 
’voir, beautiful!” 


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299 


'“Ait voir, Gai-Da! Coming, Commodore!” 

She went to her father. 

Odrasse took her place beside Daniel. Dan saw 
tears in his eyes. Odrasse said hesitatingly, “It’s 
ail right, Barde. It would be all right,—you and 
Berne. I’m like my great-uncle, I suppose. I 
could be Ombre to a man friend, just like him.” 

“You’re too blithe and gay to be anybody’s 
shadow, ’Drasse,” Dan said, much moved by this 
confession. “And too solid. But I’d like a heap 
to be the fellow you chose for a friend, old man! 
I’m going away soon, ’Drasse. Soon as I finish the 
survey.” 

Odrasse put his arm through Daniel’s. After 
awhile he said, “Got a whole lot to do before to¬ 
morrow. And I want to go home now and see what 
my pere found; he’s testing the water on the rice— 
for salt. It was so hot we were afraid the meter 
test wasn’t safe; so he’s trying the chemicals. 
Salt’s sneaking up on us fast. We’re testing for 
Mr. La Grande, too. Their field is nearer the 
Gulf. Good by until to-morrow night!” 

“And good luck! Obar and I will go in to¬ 
gether on time, according to orders. Hope Mr. 
La Grande keeps away. To-morrow night,—by 
Pool o’ the Moon!” 


CHAPTER XX 


POOL O’ THE MOON 

T HOUGH she tried to induce him to stay 
at home, Berne could not keep her father 
away from the scene of his hope, next 

evening. 

Landry, unable to rest, hoping that word from 
Burden might have come to his office, had gone 
to the city accompanied by his faithful Mater. 

Their departure made Mr. La Grande’s way 
clear. With many misgivings, his daughter took 
her place in the buggy beside him and drove him 
through moonlit roads towards the Guidry woods. 

Few penetrated the woods to the Pool o’ the 
Moon, because of its inaccessibility and because 
there were so many better places for hunting and 
trapping. 

Indeed, the singular absence of life about this 
strange spot had given it a bad repute. 

It had an uncanny, a mysterious aspect. 
Although on dry ground and well out of the 
swamp, the growth about it was dark and dense 
and high. Cypress and tupelo gave way to a 

crowding grove of tall and black magnolia trees. 

300 


POOL O’ THE MOON 


301 


These were just coming into bloom; their great 
globes of buds looked livid, like ghostly heads, in 
the dim darkness; and, at a later season, the red 
seeds fell like drops of blood. 

Now the perfume was heavy and heady, and, 
mingled with it, came the fragrance of swamp jas¬ 
mine and a queer, sharp, cool smell, found only 
here. 

Vines thick and dank hung like an arras in an old 
tale, a voluminous curtaining circle, from one black 
tree to another. 

Even at noonday, the sun’s rays seldom reached 
this leafy cavern; only it turned softly to a silvery 
twilight in which the round pool itself glimmered 
faintly, like a fading moon. 

Back in the grove, sudden mounds of high 
ground rose unexpectedly; perhaps they were In¬ 
dian burial places, perhaps the constant slipping of 
the earth had brought the swamp so near them; 
perhaps they were another instance of the strange 
formation hereabout, thought to be due to the salt. 

Though it lay so near the swamp, the land about 
Pool o’ the Moon was solid and, for that flat coun¬ 
try, high. 

Obar and Daniel were already hidden in the 
forest. 

A p-ame warden sat in a motor-skiff on the canal 

o 

shore; another, beside the distant bayou; to stop 
escape in either direction by water. All the possi¬ 
ble roads were watched. Vitesse and the Sheriff s 


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roan mare, side by side, were bearing their riders to 
the dry path in the Guidry woods; at a distance, 
Berne’s buggy followed them. 

Her father sat erect and still. Only twice he 
spoke. “The letter says that the amount is large; 
my dear. Very large. Not only in valuables. 
Money, too. A whole strongbox of treasury notes. 
And there is a hint of the—Lafitte hoard, too,— 
but we’ll not count on that.” And later, “I hope 
our people will not show themselves too soon,— 
before the place is indicated. It would not do to 
scare them off prematurely.” 

“Every one is going to keep off until Obar fires 
a signal,” she assured him. “He’ll watch Borel 
closely.” 

Borel knew the strange pool by day or night and, 
with a talisman of his mother’s in his pocket, had 
no fear of its alleged diabolical visitors, as he ap¬ 
proached it now at nightfall. 

The covert where Prowler and Borel had hidden 
was far from this spot; even in Prowler’s motor- 
skiff it had been necessary for Borel to start off early 
in the morning. 

So, at dawn, while the unsuspicious Prowler still 
slept heavily, wrapped in his mosquito-netting, on 
the cabin floor, Borel had arisen cautiously. 

The Prowler slept with his coat for a pillow; 
and in the pocket was that map. Borel had not 
been able to get it; but he knew the spot now; that 
was enough. 


POOL O’ THE MOON 


303 


The mosquito-netting was rolled about Prowler. 
A very good thing! It enabled Borel to tie him 
up in it with a rope, almost before the Prowler was 
enough awake to struggle. Then, with the Prowl¬ 
er’s curses ringing in his ears, frightening him be¬ 
yond reason, Borel had slipped into the motor-skiff, 
set the engine going fast and made his way to the 
bay’s mouth. 

There, a friendly launch, engaged by Oreste and 
Beque for the day, ostensibly for fishing, had re¬ 
ceived and hidden him in its cabin. 

Now, their journey nearly over, in that mother- 
of-pearl twilight, up the bayou they were trail¬ 
ing with a good “catch” of fish and Borel under 
cover. 

Every little while he laughed aloud at the Prowl¬ 
er’s predicament. “But no! I did not tie him 
very tight. I did not want he should not draw free 
for something to eat; heh? But just to keep him 
busy for awhile. Et f alors! He has no boat. He 
must stay there. I have take’ his boat. Next 
time he will think more long before to name Borel 
the name of a fool. Heh? I did not hurt him; 
no. And I put beside him a bottle of my gin. Oh, 
I have some heart; me!” 

But Borel should have remembered that the 
Prowler was resourceful. Having at last freed 
himself, he climbed to the cabin-roof, waved the 
mosquito-netting, waved his coat, halloed to the 
boats that passed. But, as these were few and far 


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out on the water,—the inlet was a blind alley,— 
they neither saw nor heard him. 

He tore a board from the cabin floor and made 
a bridge of it from the doorstep to one of the 
small shell-islands. He gathered all the dry reeds 
he could reach and spread them in the cabin and on 
the roof. Then he waited until he saw a schooner 
looming in the distance. When it had come close 
enough for his purpose, he set fire to the reeds, in 
the point where it crosses the canal. 

The breeze was brisk and the whirling flames 
soon attracted attention. His figure silhouetted 
against them brought the vessel,—a fishing boat 
from down the coast,—within hailing distance. 
The yarn he told so far satisfied the crew that they 
consented to take him up Bayou Vermilion as far as 
the point where it crosses the canal. 

As they sailed up the bayou, Prowler lay on his 
face, pretending to sleep. Occasionally he took a 
mouthful from Borel’s bottle; and each drink made 
him angrier with the donor. 

When they put him off at evening at the con¬ 
fluence of the two streams, he moved rapidly into 
the woods. 

Not so rapidly, however, but that Caleb, the 
fisherman, saw him with his keen eyes. Caleb 
whistled softly, left his boat by the marge of the 
canal and, soft-footed as an Indian, followed the 
Prowler, toward the Pool o’ the Moon, where now, 
Dan and Obar, concealed in the black thicket back of 


POOL O’ THE MOON 


3°5 


the mounds smoked their pipes to keep off the mos¬ 
quitoes, and waited. 

The pool was the moon’s pool, indeed, that 
night, a night so brilliant that, even in this black 
forest, vague brightnesses flickered through, eerily 
lighting a leaf or bud, a patch of water. The 
open place of the pool itself, that in the daylight 
glimmered like the wraith of a moon, now in the 
moonlight glowed a dulled and mystic mirror. It 
shone dim and still as death. 

At a rustle of steps and voices, Obar and Dan 
emptied their pipes, stood alert. 

Oreste, Beque and Borel came, carrying lanterns 
and shovels. They were gay, the more circum¬ 
spect Oreste occasionally checking the hilarity of 
the others. 

At a point within reach in the Guidry woods, 
Odrasse and the Sheriff now waited, too. Behind 
them, Berne and her father were steadily approach¬ 
ing. 

And, by clumsy and mistaken paths that tried 
the patience of Caleb following in his wake, the 
Prowler was making angry progress. 

At a point just across the weird, white-edged 
pool, Dan could see Borel lift a heavy log from the 
base of a mound. Oreste held a lantern for him. 
Under the log some one had been digging a trench. 

With a cry, the three youths set to work rapidly 
with their shovels, the lanterns on the ground be¬ 
side them. 


3c6 


COME HOME 


Obar and Daniel held their breath as the earth 
flew about the diggers, now deep in the trench. 

Excited as he was, Daniel, watching them, won¬ 
dered at the peculiarity of the soil. In this location, 
the hole, man-deep, should have been full of water, 
or at least, even allowing for the drainage down the 
mound, should have been very muddy. But appar¬ 
ently dry enough, the three kept on digging, dog¬ 
gedly. 

Borel was beginning to swear with impatience, 
with doubt, with fear of disappointment, when his 
brother Beque gave a shout. 

“He! La boite! La void!” 

Shouting all three, they were lifting a box of 
considerable size to the surface, and Obar had his 
pistol raised to fire the signal—when another shot 
rang through the forest, followed by a cry. 

Thinking this to be Obar’s signal, Odrasse on 
Vitesse and the Sheriff on his roan crashed through 
the w r oods; the riders sprang from their horses, 
ran to the pool. 

There, Obar and Daniel already had “covered” 
the trench. 

Into the trench, a line of warm young blood was 
flowing. 

The Prowler, his pistol still smoking in his hand, 
stood on the edge of this grave that Borel had dug 
for himself. 

When he saw Dan and Obar, Prowler cried, 
with a horrid gasp, “You damn traitor!” to the 


POOL O’ THE MOON 


307 


dead boy lying at his feet. “To bring them in it, 
too! I thought you was alone !” as if explaining to 
the dead why he had dared to take the risk of mur¬ 
dering him. 

When Berne and her father came, the Sheriff 
had the Prowler; Dan and Odrasse were working 
in vain over Borel, and Beque was weeping wildly 
on the shoulder of the silent Oreste. From the 
other direction, Caleb came running. 

The Prowler saw the newcomers, turned a look 
of malevolence upon them. He was opening his 
lips curiously, an astonished expression growing in 
his eyes, as if it were just dawning upon him, what 
he had done in his gin-stimulated rage. 

Berne made her father sit upon a log, lean against 
her. 

“It ends in the death of another young man,’’ 
he said. “It is horrible.” He was miserably 
shaken. 

To him, after a little, Obar brought the box. 

Mr. La Grande did not take the anticipated 
triumph in it, of course, with this tragedy before 
him; still, he could not but feel a tremendous hope. 
If the box contained what he expected to find in it, 
he was justified; his son, his plantation, were safe. 

As the box lay before him, he exclaimed, almost 
beyond speech, gaspingly, “Look! Daughter ! Look! 
My grandfather’s monogram! Look! It is that 
box. Please open it, Obar,—Odrasse.” 

* But when Berne’s eyes, following that trembling 


3°8 


COME HOME 


finger, fell upon the box, she turned white as chalk, 
threw her arms about him in an anguish of protec¬ 
tion, cried out, “No! No! It isn’t! It isn’t! 
Oh, my dear! My dear!” 

“Why, Flame! What? What?” 

They had opened the box. 

On its deep floor there lay tarnished tinsel orna¬ 
ments, old but all too modern, left from some 
Christmas tree, many “dollars” of tin-foil and the 
tops of pop-bottles, “jewels” of broken glass, and 
—but what matter? Trash lay in the box. Con¬ 
temporary trash. 

Mr. La Grande turned a helpless, bewildered, pit¬ 
eous face to his daughter. “What is it? What is 
it?” he asked feebly. 

Berne’s own lips were trembling so that she 
could hardly speak. 

“Oh, darling! Darling!” she said, her arms 
about her father. “It’s Peter’s treasure. Peter— 
one day in the beginning of his vacation—Brazile 
and Alligator-man took him and Karl for a day in 
the woods. Pete asked me to let him take an old 
empty chest from the attic,—the broken one with 
a loose clasp—to play pirate.” She sobbed. “He 
said—Brazile was going to show him a dandy place. 
Of course, I could never dream they’d go so far, 
come here! Peter often plays pirate. O Commo¬ 
dore ! I’d told Pete to bring the chest back home 
—and I thought he had. Brazile and Alligator- 
man must have found this trench begun; they can 


POOL O’ THE MOON 


309 


see anything in the woods, both of them. This 
must have been the ‘dandy place’! They must 
have helped the boys dig deeper and—buried their 
box—and fixed it up to look the same so it wouldn’t 
show again, I suppose. You know how skilful in 
the woods they both are, and Brazile’s like a child 
himself when he plays with the little boys. I'm just 
guessing all this; I don’t know just what hap¬ 
pened, of course. But that man,” she pointed to 
the blanched and shaking Prowler. “That man 
must have found, after awhile—when he began dig¬ 
ging there again,—that old loose hinge! Dan 
saw him find one. All the hinges, clasps, have 
La Grande engraved on the metal, you see. He 
must have thought—O Commodore!” She could 
not go on. 

This thing was a ghastly joke. A joke! It was 
that that made it so tragic. 

Mr. La Grande dropped his head in his hands. 
“And that boy—is dead —for this!” he mourned. 

A terrific hysterical guffaw from Prowler 
brought them all, right about, towards him. He 
had just realized—poor devil!—for what a prize 
he had killed a man. 

Mr. La Grande pulled himself together. “No 
use staying here. I thank all you gentlemen.” He 
rose unsteadily. 

A joke! Child’s play. A joke. He kept say¬ 
ing it in his mind. The horrible part of it was 
that it was all so natural,—just a trick of life! 


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Rather funny, but for Borel's death. He began to 
think of the boy’s mother. 

His daughter and Obar led him away. The 
Sheriff and Odrasse, who was unshamedly weep¬ 
ing, followed, guarding their prisoner. Oreste and 
Beque came after them, bearing their dead. 

Motioning Caleb to stay with him, Dan Barde 
went back to the Pool o’ the Moon. 

He had washed his hands in its strange water 
after his attempt to revive Borel, bending so low 
over it that some water had splashed into his face. 
Since then he kept regarding it. 

Now, he watched the others out of sight, leaned 
over the pool again. 

Then he flashed his pocket light into the pool 
and into that trench of death and disappointment. 

He took up a shovel and began to dig. 

After a few words, Caleb took another. 

They were still digging when the morning turned 
the Pool o’ the Moon from its ghostly to its 
witchy gleam. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE MAN WHO HAD EVERYTHING 


M R. LA GRANDE’S collapse would have 
been more severe but for the fine mettle 
of the man under his surface weakness. 
He had the feminine quality of being better able to 
bear a catastrophe than the fear of one. 

He slept on through the morning, after he had 
fallen into the sleep of exhaustion for what re¬ 
mained of that trying night. 

Berne had given her directions for the day and 
returned home before he awoke and rang for his 
coffee. 

She brought it to him herself. 

“Kind of a—joke—on me, Flame!” he suggested. 
“Nothing like having a sense of humor, Commo¬ 
dore,” she smiled back at him. “Better ‘stay put’ 
all day to-day. Don’t get up, dear.” 

He nodded obedience. 

He could not help thinking of how ridiculous 
this story, how absurd his part in it, would seem 
in the telling,—the frequent, inevitable and endless 
telling throughout “the parish.” But at least peo- 



3 12 


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pie would not let him see their amusement; for that 
he could thank their traditional courtesy. It 
would make it much easier for him. 

Berne felt his thought. “We’re not the only 
family in the parish who've looked for treasure at 
one time or another, Commodore,” she said 
lightly. “You’d be astonished to know how often 
some Baratarian legend has been revived and has 
set people going.” 

“What a man, you are, daughter!” 

“Just what I was thinking about you, Commo¬ 
dore.” 

His eyes grew moist. “I fear your mother and 
Landry may not be so—admiring,” with a sorry 
smile. “The story is ‘out’ now. When they re¬ 
turn to hear—” 

“That’s just what I wanted to talk about. 
Reckon I’ll run into the city and tell them myself. 
I’d like to be the first to do it. I’m sure that 
would be better than having it—happen here. And 
I want to go to New Orleans to-day, anyway. You 
be all right in Singsie’s care? And Peterkin’s. 
Pete says he'll ‘sick' Gamin on you if you break 
training. If anything should go wrong, telephone 
to Nell Droussard. She’s always envied me my 
Dad; be glad to come.” 

“I’m all right. Thank you, for going. It will 
be a blessed relief to me not to have to explain. 
Poor Landry! I had so hoped—” He caught 
himself. 


THE MAN WHO HAD EVERYTHING 313 

“Go on hoping, honey. We may fix it for him 
still.” 

When in a little while she gave him a good-by 
kiss, his cheeks were wet and he said, “I lie here 
doing nothing while you face the music.” 

“You lie there getting well, please, sir. And, 
in between whiles, if you’re wanting to do some¬ 
thing else useful, darling, pray for rain!” 

Mater and Landry were having their evening 
meal in their apartment in New Orleans when 
Berne appeared. 

“Everybody’s all right!” she hastened to say; 
Mater looked so frightened at the sight of her. 
Anxiety about her husband’s health tapped more 
often and more sharply at the frivolous little lady’s 
heart than one might have supposed. 

Mater’s eyes were sunken, her mouth drooping. 
Like most people with a superabundance of surface 
gaiety, she had little real composure under strain. 

Berne looked at her with an immense pity. If 
ever any one were born to be rich and happy, it was 
this poor little Mater, she thought. 

She told them about the hunt for treasure, giv¬ 
ing them the end of the story first, to avoid their 
disappointment. But that method failed of its ef¬ 
fect; they were both overwhelmed by Mr. La 
Grande’s having been fleeced for such an end, at his 
having made them ridiculous. 

“That’s the way things go with us!” cried 
Mater. “It’s La Grande luck. Oh! I wish I 


3*4 


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were dead!” she sobbed and wrung her hands. 

“Luck!” Landry exclaimed bitterly. “It’s Fa¬ 
ther’s colossal blindness. Why on earth didn’t he 
tell us; tell you, Mater; tell me? Somebody who 
would have made a real investigation, somebody 
who wouldn’t be taken in by a fairy-tale!” 

Berne ignored the thrust at her, but could not 
help defending her father. “Lie probably felt him¬ 
self to be as astute as you are, Landry. Please 
don’t make it any harder for Father. His chief 
disappointment was for you.” 

“God! If he’d considered me before he sank 
that money! And you, Camille,—letting him deal 
with shady customers like that and not telling any¬ 
body !” 

“Think I’d a right to, when Commodore said 
not ?” 

Landry thrashed about exasperated. “Right! 
You bet I do! Look what a hole you put me in! 
If I had that money—” 

“Nobody’s put you in a hole but yourself,” 
Berne said. “You're in no position to criticize 
Commodore. You’ve been ‘done’ yourself, and by 
the same gang.” 

“Landry made a perfectly natural mistake,” 
Mater defended. “The man had done business 
with Lan and his bank references were sound; and 
if your father had been able to see him through his 
difficulties, Landry wouldn’t have needed those ad¬ 
vances.” 


THE MAN WHO HAD EVERYTHING 315 


“Oh!” Landry said with an air of taking unjust 
blame with patience, “doubtless my fault!” 

Berne thought it undoubtedly his fault, but she 
held back the retort. 

“I’m not making a case against Landry,” she 
said. “Just reminding him not to blame Commo¬ 
dore for the same—misfortune. Mater, Commo¬ 
dore can’t stand being blamed.” 

Her mother blanched. Then, with a flash of 
her old spirit, “I don’t need you to tell me how to 
treat your father, Berne!” 

“Oh! I know it, dear!” 

“Well!” 

“If we only could have gotten rid of that plan¬ 
tation!” Landry cried. “That’s where every¬ 
thing’s sunk.” 

Berne rose sharply. “I’ve heard that enough. 
It’s not true. The plantation’s saved you every 
time you’ve needed saving. You’d have gone 
smash long ago but for it. It’s the only hope now, 
—if it rains.” 

“What? If what?” 

“Yes. There’s a little too much salt in the 
bayous for the rice. We never had such an early 
drought. So! You do depend on the plantation, 
after all!” she said grimly, seeing Landry’s shocked 
face. “I don’t want to worry you, Mater. It’ll 
be all right, I still feel sure. But I’m fed up with 
this talk against the land that supports us. I know 
I’m a failure as a manager; I’m the worst failure 


316 


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of all,—even with Mr. Jonas watching and help¬ 
ing me so. But Imaginaire has fed and housed and 
hacked us in spite of being drained dry,—no ready 
money,—nothing put back in the land,—and Com¬ 
modore ill,—and an amateur like me—I won’t have 
Imaginaire blamed! Especially if we have to lose 
it—after all!” 

Landry felt a compunction. “My goodness, 
Sis! I haven’t said anything against the old place. 
You don’t understand. Only we haven’t got much 
out of it. Facts are facts.” 

His mother nodded. 

Berne regretted her outburst. “This doesn’t ar¬ 
rive; does it? Point is, what to do now.” 

“I’ve tried everything.” 

“Did you ask Martin?” 

Her mother looked up, a quick hope in her 
eyes. 

“Martin!” Landry laughed drily. “How can 
I? With Martin wanting to marry you? If you 
were going to marry him, or if he didn’t want you to, 
I’d ask him in a minute. He'd never feel it. But 
I guess you’ve shut that oh for me pretty sharp.” 

“It’s the disappointment of my life,” Mater 
sighed. “I stood Berne’s opposition, Martin’s 
amusement,—everything. Even being thought 
mercenary. You and your father have no monop¬ 
oly on disinterested motives* my dear!” 

“O Mater!” 


THE MAN WHO HAD EVERYTHING 317 


“When you’re my age you’ll realize what ad¬ 
vantages like Martin’s mean to a wife. Not only 
position and wealth. Mind, character, disposition, 
breeding, good looks. The man has everything ,— 
everything! What on earth can you want?” 

Berne said only, “Landry, if you had help now, 
could you pull out? Are you reasonably sure?’’ 

“Yes. That’s the devil of it.” He put his 
head in his hands. 

“Martin in town?” Berne asked and sat in si¬ 
lence long after Landry had said “Yes.” 

Her mother regarded her anxiously. At last 
she drew a chair beside her and said under her 
breath, “Dear,—I hope you’re not planning any¬ 
thing sacrificial—for our sakes.” 

Half of her did hope that, frightened at the 
thought of it; but half of her wanted it, believing 
it would be happier even for Berne herself in the 
end. 

Berne stared, then laughed. 

“You mean—marry Martin! Without loving 
him! As if I could—even if he wanted to! I’m 
too poor a liar for that.” 

“I did not assume that you’d lie to him,” 
sharply. 

“Not to him. To the Flame. Don’t worry, 
Mater. Of course, I won’t.” 

Her mother shrugged wearily, soon withdrew for 
the night. Berne rose when she did so, wanting 


3 l8 


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to kiss her, comfort her; but it was to Landry 
Mater turned for that caress. She managed to 
convey to her daughter a sense of injury. 

Oh! She did not wish Berne to marry him, not 
wanting to; but she wanted Berne to want to marry 
him! 

“Elodi came on the train with me, Lan,” Berne 
said, when she had gone. 

“I know. Wrote to me. Suppose I ought to 
call.” 

“Oh, no! Elodi’d rather not.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“She told me on the train she’d quarreled with 
you about ’Drasse. Said she didn’t like you as 
much as she had.” 

“Oh, that!” He laughed. “Expected you to 
tell me, of course.” 

“But I told her I was glad of it.” 

“Why on earth—” 

“Elodi asked me that, too. I said because I was 
afraid she was getting a ‘crush’ on you.” 

“What did she say to that?” 

“She said, ‘Afraid!’ And asked me why afraid. 
I told her it was because I liked her so well.” 

“You—” 

“That’s all. But Elodi’s no fool. She got what 
I meant.” 

Elodi had turned pale but had taken the message 
straight and thanked Berne with her hurt eyes. 


THE MAN WHO HAD EVERYTHING 319 


Landry was furious. “I’ll thank you to keep out 
of my business, Camille.” 

“This was Elodi’s and she thanked me. I’ll keep 
in your business just once more, Lan; then out for¬ 
ever after.” 

“What are you talking about?” 

“Good night.” Then, “Friends? Even if I did 
intrude. I don’t often; you know.” 

Something in her face made him kiss his sister. 
“As if we weren’t always friends!” he said. “You 
just imagine things.” 

In the morning, Martin Pinckney’s secretary 
brought him to his feet with more emotion than he 
would have cared to show, by saying, “Miss 
La Grande to see you, sir.” 

“Berne!” Martin cried as she entered; then, 
quickly, “Nothing wrong, I hope!” 

“Heaps!” 

“May I help?” 

“That depends.” 

“On what? Tell me, little friend.” 

“You mean that, Martin, don’t you? Liter¬ 
ally?” as she sat beside him. 

“Mean what?” 

“ ‘Friend.’ ” 

“You know I’m your friend, child. It’s not like 
you, Candidissima, to speak in riddles. Tell me 
what’s on your mind. Do you object to my taking 
this off?” 


3 20 


COME HOME 


“My hat? Wait until I get the hat-pin out, 
please. I’d like to keep the hair on.” 

“Now let’s move your chair into that sunray. 
’What a conflagration! Now, you may look out 
over the city and enjoy the view from there; and 
I’ll be seeing a ‘pretty,’ myself.” 

She knew he was putting her at ease and was 
glad of the moment’s respite. She obediently 
looked out over the little houses of lower New 
Orleans with their hanging balconies of iron lace 
and potted plants, over their varied roof-line to 
the broad silver sweep of the distant river; while 
Martin looked at her. 

Then she told him about her father’s troubles, 
the burdens upon the plantation, the tragic treasure- 
hunt, about the worn-out pump and the broken trac¬ 
tor that delayed the crop, the threatened drought 
that might destroy it. She told him how nothing 
but a good season and patient creditors could save 
Imaginaire. 

Several times he tried to interpose, to offer help; 
but every time she stopped him. 

“No, Martin; please! I’ve taught myself this 
little speech like a lesson. Let me say it through, 
or I’ll lose my place.” She smiled, but he saw that 
she had really schooled herself. And at last, “I 
know you’re just perishing to say, ‘Let me help!’ 
But you can’t,—in anything I’ve already told you. 
I just told it to set the stage, so you’ll understand 
conditions.” 


THE MAN WHO HAD EVERYTHING 321 


“Why can’t I help?” 

“Father’s affair. And he’d never borrow an¬ 
other cent on the place from anybody unless the 
crop’s good and he can do some paying off. 
Wouldn’t be fair, for the poor old plantation is 
already owing all it can possibly pay. We’ve 
got to depend on a crop. No; that’s settled, 
Martin. It’s something else you can help in; 
maybe.” 

“I will, of course. Tell me.” 

She hesitated. 

“Is it—Landry? I’ve been hearing. Had 
breakfast with Cor—with a man this morning, who 
suspected—” 

“It’s Landry. But I’ve got to talk about some¬ 
thing else first; before I tell you. Before I can let 
you help.” 

Martin Pinckney knew more about Landry’s mis¬ 
adventures than Berne thought; more, perhaps, 
than Berne did herself. And he knew the family’s 
fine temper ; knew they’d let the plantation go be¬ 
fore disgracing Landry. 

His eyes full of pity and tenderness, he waited 
for her to tell him, watching for the opportunity to 
spare her as much of the recital as he could. 

Oh! How easy it would be for him to lift this 
entire load, if Heaven and Berne would let him! 
Something within him rejoiced at her coming to 
him now; surely she must like him better than she 
knew, to come! But, also, something within him 


COME HOME 


3 22 

darkly denied this; if she thought of him as a lover 
she would not have come. 

He -waited. 

‘‘Landry’s trouble is serious. I asked him, Mar¬ 
tin, why he had not come to you for help.” Berne 
spoke slowly. “I knew that you could help him 
more easily than any other friend. And I knew 
that you would. So I asked him. Mater would 
be horrified at what I'm going to say; and I reckon 
it isn’t ladylike. But friendship is bigger than— 
delicacy, I think. And yours is very big to me.” 

“Berne—” 

“Wait, please. And my love for my brother 
and—lie Imaginaire, and all of them, is bigger than 
delicacy, too. Martin,” she lifted her honest eyes 
and spoke frankly, like an embarrassed but straight¬ 
forward boy. “Landry didn’t ask your help be¬ 
cause he and Mater and even my father—and 
others, they say,—misunderstand our friendship. I 
told them you are my friend; but they think you are 
in love with me.” Her voice scarcely faltered. 
He dropped his eyes. “So they could not ask you 
for help for Landry. But I feel sure it is not so. 
Why, at first Mater thought / was in love with you. 
And if she could mistake my friendship, whom she 
should know better than she does you, of course she 
could mistake yours, too.” 

Martin clenched his hand on the arm of his chair. 

“It seemed to me a dreadful thing to keep Lan¬ 
dry from your help on a misapprehension. So, as 


THE MAN WHO HAD EVERYTHING 323 


you and I are always candid, and like candor in 
each other, I thought I’d do what I’d want a friend 
to do to me. I knew it was better,—though it 
doesn’t seem as easy as I thought,—simply to ask 
you. I’m sure / know the answer. But I want 
to tell Lan you said so.” 

Martin smiled at her. 

“The line between friendship and—love, Bereni- 
cia, is delicate. Can one always be sure?” His 
manner was light but he watched her keenly. 

“Oh, yes! Of course, one can be sure!” 

“You —know that, Candidissima ?” with an at¬ 
tempt at archness. 

“Yes. I know it, Martin. I thought you knew 
I did.” Her color deepened. 

He would cut clean, no matter how it hurt. He 
must be sure he had to, before he lied to her. 

“Young Barde, of course?” 

“Of course.” 

“Candidissima, my dear, come here.” He rose 
and she did, too. 

He took her hands, he looked into her eyes. 

“Go home and tell Landry to come to me, or else 
I shall come to him. Tell him your friendship is 
the best thing on this earth to me—and—more 
valuable than anybody’s sweethearting could be. 
But it’s only friendship, little Berenicia. I’m a 
bachelor by birth,” he grinned. “Immutable.” 

“I knew it, dear Martin,—about the friendship. 
But I’m glad I asked. There was a little sneaking 



COME HOME 


3 2 4 

doubt,” she was frank, as always. “And to hurt 
you would be unbearable.” 

“You conceited little monkey!” he teased. 
“Friends forever, Berne?” 

“Oh, yes, dear!” 

“And you will send Landry; let me help?” 

“Just as you would do to me, if I could help you. 
And, thank you!” 

“For nothing. Let me put that hat on for you?” 
“All but the hat-pin, please.” 

He stood behind her, softly laid his cheek against 
her hair; then placed the hat upon her head with 
deft and precise fingers. 

“Now, don’t worry, honey. You’re a dear to 
have come to me,” he said. 

When she had gone, he locked the door of his 
office, telephoned to his secretary not to disturb 
him. 

Then he went to the window, stood long, looking 
over the roofs of the houses hung with iron-lace to 
the silver curve of the river. 

“The only thing I ever wanted! In all my life. 
The only thing I ever really wanted!” the man who 
had everything said to himself. 


CHAPTER XXII 


WAITING 

W HEN Berne reached the apartment, Lan¬ 
dry had just come home to lunch with 
his Mater, to please that worried little 
lady, and to be comforted. Her indomitable ad¬ 
miration bolstered his self-respect. 

Landry now acknowledged that there was no 
hope of Burden, and his note was almost due. He 
had more than a suspicion that Tom Corbin was 
‘on’ and had been talking. Berne found him recit¬ 
ing his despair to poor little Mater. 

“Cheer up, Landry!” Berne cried. “You’re to 
go to Martin right away. He says he’ll see you 
through.” 

Mater sprang to her feet. “Berne! You 
didn’t—” 

“Not that, of course. And you were all mistaken. 
I was right. Martin isn’t in love with me. He 
said so.” 

“Said so?” 

“Yes. I asked him.” 

“You—” Mater saw it all. “Oh! You little 

fool’! You little fool! You have thrown 

325 


326 


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away—” she began; but stopped at the sight of 
Landry’s face quivering with relief. After all, 
Landry was saved; this was gained and, perhaps, 
the other not lost either. In time! Perhaps all 
the more likely because of Berne’s gratitude for 
this friendship! 

Landry, too, disbelieved Martin’s disclaimer; but 
he took the goods the gods provided, thanked and 
kissed his sister. Camille was a brick; he was go¬ 
ing to try to be more useful to her. 

But when, bidding him good-by as he left them 
after luncheon, Berne said, “Now, Lanny dear, 
watch your step; won’t you? We have to be 
mighty careful now,” he drew back, offended. 

“I suppose I'll have to take that. But I’m man¬ 
aging my end of the business quite as well as— 
anybody.” 

Berne took the implied tu quoque good-naturedly. 
“No need to be on the defensive, Lan. Just a 
friendly warning.” 

“Thanks. But it’s not needed.” 

“We, all of us, do have to be careful, though, 
in every way,” Mater admonished. “I must be 
economical. Your father must be cautious. And 
I can see where you’re making pretty big mistakes 
yourself, Berne.” 

Mater was alluding to the matter of Martin and 
Daniel, but Berne thought that she, too, was critici¬ 
zing the management of the plantation. Her nerves 


WAITING 


3 2 7 


were worn through. The fire leaped to her eyes. 

“Very well!” she cried. “If I’m no good on the 
plantation, manage it yourselves. I’m done.” 

“Why, Berne!” from the astonished Mater. 

“I’m tired of being told about my shortcomings 
and Commodore’s. I’m tired of being treated as 
if I held on to the plantation, because I preferred 
toiling from morning to night. Mater’s said so 
often that I’m not a regular girl, that she’s come 
to believe it. I’m working like a hired man, so 
that Lan can do what he likes to do. If you can 
find any one to run Imaginaire better, hire him. 
Let Landry find a way to pay him.” 

Mater suddenly perceived her daughter. 

“I told you Berne had her same old temper!” 
Landry said, laughing. “You thought—” 

“Thought I had no feelings at all. Because I’m 
able to control—” then she laughed shortly, and 
did control them. “I’m not showing much con¬ 
trol now, I’ll admit,” she said, setting that chin and 
lip. “I’m pretty tired. But I mean what I said.” 

Mater spoke gently. She was seeing Berne as 
she was, for the first time in years. Her daughter 
was right; they had been taking her for granted, 
had been accepting her service without thanks, her 
poise for hardness; had been using up her girlhood. 

“But we all need you, daughter. Nobody could 
do what you have done for us. As soon as we can, 
we will hire a man, Berne. But you'll bear with 


3 28 


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your family, till then?” smiling through tears. 
Mater was flirting with Berne, as she did with her 
men. She had not done this before. Berne liked 
it, softened. 

“For Pete and Commodore,—even if Lan and I. 
talk as if we didn’t love you; though we do!” Mater 
pleaded. 

Berne astonished herself by bursting into tears. 
She hid them on the sofa-cushion. Mater sat be¬ 
side her, motioning Landry to go, put her arms 
about her daughter. 

“I’ve wanted you so!” Berne thought silently, 
and Mater may have felt it. At any rate, her 
own tears, this time, at least, were deeper than the 
surface. Mater was ashamed. 

But Mater’s reactions would not have wholly 
pleased her daughter. She was making up her 
mind that Berne should come into town more often, 
have more of social life, see more of Martin Pinck¬ 
ney in his own environment. She was going to 
help Martin all she could. That was the real way 
out for Berne. 

Mater wanted everybody to be happy,—in Mat¬ 
er’s way. 

And, in spite of her sympathy, she said, pursu¬ 
ing her own purposes, as always, when Berne had 
dried her eyes, “Not going to desert us yet, after 
all; are you? You’ll give us another chance, honey? 
You’ll wait?” 


WAITING 


329 


And, of course, Berne replied, “Certainly, Mater. 
I’ll stay on my job.” 

When Berne, on her job, got back to Cureville, 
Mme. Boutin’s car was in the little plaza cooling 
off after a long ride in the flaming sun. And Mme. 
Boutin herself was sitting on the steps of the red- 
brick-and-white church, fanning vigorously with a 
braid-bound palm-leaf fan. She had just purchased 
a tin-cupful of figs from a “French” colored woman 
who stood before her, looking dark and cool in her 
blue calico dress and black sun-bonnet, a leaf- 
thatched wicker basket on her arm. Mme. Bou¬ 
tin’s “water waves” of hair were plastered to her 
perspiring forehead; and the very beads of jet she 
wore seemed moist. 

“He! Camille Berenicia!” she cried. tc V enez- 
ici! Come here, Camille! Have some fig’? No? 
You come by the train and not look so warm like 
me who drive this car. This car, she is not an 
automobile. Oh, no, no! She is a stove on the 
wheels. The sun from the top, she bake me and the 
engine from the bottom, she broil me! He! And 
the bomp-bomp turn me over till I’m done. Fie, he! 
It is a great pleasure to be the owner of such a 
machine d’enfers. For my sins I buy me that auto¬ 
mobile !” She laughed and jingled. “You go 
somewhere? I can take you somewhere in my car, 
maybe ?” 

“Just going to see Oncle Jubat; thank you. I’ll 


330 


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walk; it’s so near. And Hope will call for me 
later.” 

“But Judge Julien is not at home. This is the 
day he goes every week to visit General Barde. I 
pass to there, too, me, when I get my breath and 
the automobile, she get her breath. Tiens! You 
walk very slowly, I come along with you. We 
leave that devil to pant and groan by herself.” 

They found the two gentlemen on the cool Barde 
porch back of the oak-walk, discussing a letter. 
With neighborly candor, they told these established 
friends its contents, while Mme. Boutin and Berne 
seated themselves and waited for the cooling drink 
old Baptiste went to get for them. 

“I have the honor to have received at last,” the 
General said with a tinge of sarcasm, “a letter from 
my daughter-in-law, Mrs. Maude Barde. That is 
to say a letter with a persona-l import, as well as 
the necessary business.” 

Berne’s cheek flushed and faded. Mme. Boutin 
lifted her shoulders and tilted all her chins. “She 
has taken her time. It must be that she desires 
something,” was her silent comment. 

“I confess that I do not understand the letter,” 
the General continued. “Why it comes, or what 
it signifies.” 

“Perhaps you do not understand because you are 
prejudiced against the lady,” Judge Julien Le Boeuf 
suggested gently. “And I do not believe Mme. 


WAITING 


331 

Boutin will decrease the pressure of that.” He 
laughed. “Eh, Amitilde?” he asked her. 

“You have right,” said Mme. Boutin. 

“I have no wish to be unjust to any one,” said 
General Barde. 

Mme. Boutin snapped her eyes. “The letter, 
what is it that she say’?” she asked. 

It began with graceful phrases, apologetic,offer¬ 
ings of friendship, so prettily turned that even 
General Barde acknowledged their finesse. Then, 
it said, that Daniel had written of his interest in the 
parish, of the good it was doing him,—even in that 
hot summer time which she so well remembered,— 
and of his desire to stay as long as he could and 
then go West to work at his profession. Dear 
Daniel feared her loneliness and—alas!—her op¬ 
position. They had been a couple of youngsters to¬ 
gether. Oh, well! She had learned that children 
will grow up and leave even young parents. Per¬ 
haps, she suggested, this was her prescribed pen¬ 
ance for having taken dear Olivier from his father. 

The General’s words bit as he read this. 

The letter said that Daniel would never believe 
it from her, she feared; would not General Barde 
make Daniel understand that she was really quite 
willing, or at least quite ready to let him go? But 
she really thought it his duty to see her first. Did 
not General Barde think Dan ought to visit her be¬ 
fore going West? She would not make it hard for 



COME HOME 


33 ^ 

him; she would not cry. Only one playtime more! 
She was writing to her son asking him to come now, 
at a very good time, while she was at Southampton 
before going into the hills. Please, General Barde, 
persuade him to do so, without delay, if the matter 
should be discussed. She assured him that she 
had a good reason for wanting Dan just at that 
time. Dan had said that he had duties which held 
him. Do persuade him to come now, nevertheless. 
It was important. 

Then the letter dealt with other matters and 
the General ceased to read it aloud. “Why do 
you suppose she writes all this to me?” he asked. 

“My opinion?” Mme. Boutin said. “She wish’ 
to get him there to view this noble sacrifice,—so 
he will relent, and prevent it. She wish’ to get 
Daniel among his old companions in idleness,—I 
ask your pardon my General!—and she believe the 
charm of Louisiana and also of industry has,—I 
ask thy pardon, Camille Berenicia!—has red hair. 
She think’ she will break new charm with old! She 
has no grand confidence in our Dan’s ambitions. 
She is astute. Oh, out!” 

“You think she is trying to get the boy away from 
me” with a glance toward Berne sitting silent on 
the step. “And is asking me to help?” General 
Barde demanded. 

Mme. Boutin shrugged. “How should I know? 
Only I think she has some selfish object; this one 



WAITING 


333 


or some other. Me, I do not accept this sacrifice. 
C*est tout!* 

“Oh, come, my good friends!” Judge Julien 
waved a deprecatory hand. “Let us not ascribe 
motives. It’s dangerous practice. My dog chased 
a negro out of the yard last night, thinking him 
after chickens, and all the poor fellow wanted was 
to propose to our yellow Hortense. He thought 
she had ‘sicked’ the dog on him; so paid his ad¬ 
dresses to another. Now Hortense departs in dudg¬ 
eon. Thus we are losing the best cook in the 
five parishes! All through ascribing motives!” 

They laughed and the Judge continued seriously, 
“It would be well not to be guided by prejudice; 
yes? This pretty, graceful child-wife of Olivier; 
I did not know her as well as either of you—” 

“That is evident,” said Mme. Boutin. “Listen! 
You think I distrust her because she have married 
Olivier, whom I expect to marry me. Ah, you do! 
(Well, I loved Olivier. Si. It is so. He rather 
this child. I am disappoint’. It is true. But I 
have not die’ of it. I have espoused me a good 
husband; I am a devote’ wife, a loyal widow. I 
use his name still, Mme. Adrian Boutin; not Mme. 
Amitilde, as she does Mrs. Maude. Bien! Y ou 
excuse her, you think, ‘She is only light; if you drop 
her out the window she will blow up, not fall 
down.’ I don’t think so; me. I say she is very 
deep, very rusee. I say I think she is a pretty, 


334 


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graceful’— pig. Oh, yes, she is—how you say?— 
very cute. But a cute white pig is as much pig as 
a ogly black one. So!” 

“Dan did not want to go,” said the General with 
an innocent gleam of triumph. “But it was not for 
fear of confronting her.” 

“What was his reason?” Berne inquired. 

“Duty. Ned needed him.” 

“The survey is not done, then?” 

The General blushed, looked embarrassed. 
“Ye-es. But Ned had another task for him; and 
time is an object. I advised Daniel to consult Ned 
about it. You will probably hear the result before 
I do,” he added slyly. 

And he was right. When Berne, after her con¬ 
sultation with “Oncle Jubat,” rode toward Imagin- 
aire, Dan was waiting for her there. 

She had had her first leap of the heart before she 
saw him. 

“Uncle Hope!” she cried joyfully as her eyes 
fell on the rice. “You’ve had a shower.” 

“Yas’m. Li’l bitty shower. It'll help some; but 
it won’t help much nor long. Howsomebber, maybe 
mo’ rain will come. ‘Say thanky fo’ a blackberry 
if you can’t get a watermillion.’ Dats what de old 
folks say. Yas, Lawd. Mist’ DanTs up to de 
house. You’s lookin’ awful pretty, Missy,” with a 
twinkle in his eye. 

The air was as glamorous with the opal after- 


WAITING 


335 


glow, a few fireflies were rising in it. Under a 
crepe-myrtle tree covered with pendant pinky clus¬ 
ters, Daniel sat telling fairy-tales to Peter and 
Beetee and Shoestring, before him on the petal- 
strewn grass. 

Berne smiled as she saw him from the buggy. 
He was telling his tale with the bright ardor that 
won old and young. 

How much seriousness lay beneath it? Was his 
desire to work just an enthusiastic whim that he 
believed in for the moment? Or had she taken his 
own light estimate of himself too gravely? Pier 
constant question! Anyway, he was a blithe be¬ 
ing in a troublesome world and it was a comfort 
just to see him. 

Dan was saying, “Then he drew his trusty 
blade—” a dramatic pause. 

“Rusty? Howcome he let it git rusty?” cried 
Shoestring. 

“Trusty,” said Peter. “Hush, Shoestring.” 

“H’m. Dat nigger cayrit shut up. Ain’t never 
got nothin’ to say and always sayin’ it,” scofled Bee- 
tee. 

Shoestring glared and grunted. 

“Oh, please be still!” Peter urged. “Then, 
what?” to Daniel. 

“And cut ofi those seven heads, one by one, and 
they fell plunk-ker-plunk in the ocean.” 

“Golly!” 


33^ 


COME HOME 


“And the water turned red with the blood; 
and Lance of Thule, well satisfied, w T ent home for 
that day’s bread and butter.” 

“Is that all? Oh, thank you; it was great! ’Lo, 
Sis!” 

Berne waved to them, went to the porch where 
a cigar glowed in the shadow. “It’s all right, 
Commodore,” she said. “And Landry’s all right, 
too.” 

“Yes, dear. Your mother spoke to me by ’phone. 
So grateful! And I’ve good news, too.” 

“Tell me. I can use it.” 

“Mr. Guidry came here shortly after you left. 
He was most considerate about the—recent fiasco. 
He offered to buy back from us the land we had 
purchased from them—under a—misconception. 
Of course I would not let him do so. It was a 
purchase. And I know that Guidry, that nobody, 
has much ready cash in these times. Naturally I 
would not consent. But it was kind.” 

“Yes, indeed. The good news, dear?” 

“Just a moment. I couldn’t have sold Pool o’ 
the Moon anyhow. Because I'd loaned it to Ned.” 

“Loaned it to Mr. Ned! Why on earth—” 

“I don't know. Some purpose of his. Young 
Barde keeps busy there. Perhaps they think—” 

“Father! You’re not believing in that treasure 
again!” 

“We-11, no. No. Of course not. You’re 
right. I suppose I'm slightly lunatic about the 


WAITING 


337 


place and can’t keep from expecting some good 
from those moonlit waters.” He smiled, sighed, 
thought of Ombre's letter. 

“But the good news?” 

“Odrasse came, then, and begged me to let his 
father buy their old part of the Cypress Swamp, at 
least. He was sincere, I saw. I know he shares 
your sentiment for the birds. He said he wanted 
to regain his part ownership in the heronry. So I 
sold that much back to him. Just the cypress strip 
alone. A very small sum in proportion to our— 
losses. But still! And, daughter, what do you 
suppose I did right away? I sent to Michigan an 
advance payment on a good modern pump. Too 
late for this year; but we'll be sure of a good pump 
next year, daughterling!” 

He beamed, anticipating her joy and Berne re¬ 
joiced, to order, for him. Dear Commodore, how 
like him to send for the new pump before they were 
sure of having any plantation next spring,—with a 
drought threatened and those debts coming due! 

Nothing to do but wait. 

But she must see if Dan could tell her what use 
Mr. Ned, what use anybody could have for Pool o’ 
the Moon. What could they be doing there? She 
was sure they would not foster false hopes in the 
Commodore. But what actual use— 

Dan came to meet her in the shell-lily walk, and 
they turned by winding paths, silently, down to the 
bayou’s edge. 


33^ 


COME HOME 


Daniel was going away; she had kept telling her¬ 
self that every day to harden her heart for the blow 
when it must fall; she wondered if she were ready 
for it now. 

The fireflies, rhythmically soaring and flashing, the 
burning punk-sticks that Dan and Berne bore against 
mosquitoes, the brilliant early stars in the twilight, 
the purple hyacinths and yellow lilies floating on the 
water and the maroon flood of Bayou Vermilion, 
silver-plated with dying light, made the evening 
seem like a continuation of Dan’s fairy-tale. 

He put a pair of glowing punk-sticks in her hair. 

“Don’t be afraid; I’ll watch them. But how 
could they set fire to fire? I’ve come for a serious 
confab, Flame.” 

She knew it, she told him; reported her visit to 
his grandfather. 

“Can’t for the life of me understand why my 
mother should ask my grandfather to urge me to 
visit her. They’re not cordial correspondents, you 
know. I’m the bright little rainbow between them. 
She must have known I'd go as far as I could to 
do what she wanted. Alw r ays do. The little girl 
has something back in that funny thing she calls 
her mind.” 

“What did Mr. Ned say?” 

“Just what you’d expect. Said the w T ork could 
wait a bit if I were coming back here, and that 
he’d manage to finish it himself if I did not. I 
couldn’t help laughing at that ,—bless his heart! 


WAITING 


339 


Said I’d feel better afterwards, when I was at my 
work away from her, if I catered to the little lady 
in this. He assumes that I want to keep on plug- 
ging,—wonder whether everybody’s so sure I won’t 
glide back into the old environment. Silence reigns. 
Whose cue was that, I wonder?” 

“I’m sure, Dan.” 

“Ah! Thanks. You’re right, too. Flame dear, 
I ain’t a loafer, never was. Listen. Hard for a 
fellow to say some things! Maybe it’s coming 
down here where my roots are; Grandfather thinks 
that helps. I’ve found myself. You—and that— 
and Mr. Ned, too. Why, there’s a man,—at first 
I said this to myself every day,—been all over the 
earth, adventured to the frozen North, explored 
in the tropics,—universities,—cities—and why does 
he choose thisf Why does he come back to what 
he was born to, away from all the interesting peo¬ 
ple, things,—to a lot of birds and a farm? I said 
it at first. Then, pretty soon, I saw this farm 
full of all he’d learned everywhere. Better and 
bigger—all the new experiments—the beauty. I 
saw what it meant to preserve things—birds and— 
why, one day I saw deer come out of his forest and 
lean against him! He was getting the best even 
out of them! 

“He was making the earth bear its best, finding 
it things to do it had never found for itself. He 
was getting the best salt out of its ribs. Making 
the best condiments in that funny rose-covered fac- 


340 


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tory; sending them, selling them all over the world, 
giving strange folk the—flesh of Louisiana. And 
making happy, useful men and women all about him 
here; workers kept in their own tradition, not just 
laborers. Getting the best out of them, too. And, 
honey, then I saw the biggest wonder of all, to me.” 

“Yes, Da?” 

“Those interesting people and things he left for 
this,—they all come here to him. Some for the 
salt mines, some for the birds, some to paint the 
beauty, agriculturists, writers,—every kind. 

“Working where you stand, getting the best out 
of the ground—says I to meself, says I,—that’s it. 
That’s loving your native land. That’s more my 
country-’tis-of-thee, Berenicia, than I ever got in 
France. Do you ‘get’ me, honey? Or am I just 
talking words?” 

“Making the nests safe for everything—” 

“Yes. That’s part of it. And I want my part. 
I’ll never feel that digging out the metal or salt or 
what-not is just a job again. Honest. Or that it 
lets me out of doing what I know because a lot of 
of others can do it. I’m on to myself—thank God! 
You’ll see. You who think I’m a gay troubadour, 
troubadour, with my light dancing ‘kicks’ on the 
floor, on the floor!” he sang. 

“You’re absurd!” she said, with eyes soft and 
bright. 

She was glad. Dan’s fondness for her might be, 
— was ,—just a summer’s flash of birds across his 


WAITING 


34i 


sky, maybe the awakened love for the old land of 
his ancestors was just the transient song a-wing of 
an inherited memory; but they had made him want 
a nest and a permanent melody for his life to sing. 
She was glad,—no matter who came to share both 
nest and song! 

As for her, she had a singing memory, too. Let 
it suffice. 

This brought her thought back to her own prob¬ 
lems. 

“What are you doing, now that the survey’s 
over? I may know?” she began. 

“No’m. It’s a secret. Ladies must wait. But 
I’ll tell you, confidentially, where my job is. 
Guess. 

“Why, Father told me. But it’s scarcely credi¬ 
ble!” 

“Yes, ma’am. Pool o’ the Moon.” 

“Why?” 

“Mr. Ned borrowed it for some experiments.” 

“Nonsense! He has land just like it. What ex¬ 
periment in there?” 

“Am I telling this? Don’t you ever believe any¬ 
thing? Mr. Ned borrowed it. For purposes of 
his own. And no visitors allowed near it. No¬ 
body. And I’m in charge of the experiment— 
or whatever it is.” 

“Da, I know whatever he does is kind and good, 
even if I can’t understand it. And if he wants to 
have the place let alone, of course, we will keep 


342 


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away. And I know neither of you would raise any 
hopes again in the Commodore—about treasure, for 
instance. Or anything chimerical.” Her voice 
had grown plaintive, troubled. “Da, please be 
careful of that. With the anxiety about the 
drought, and the strain he’s just been through! 
Oh, do be careful, Da!” 

“Of course, we will.” 

Dan had steeled himself against his heart; but 
the sight of Flame’s tired, anxious face weakened 
the defense. He gripped himself hard. 

“Are you coming back here before you go to 
Colorado?” she asked him, keeping her clear voice 
steady. 

“Yes. Of course.” 

A wave of color swept over her face and into 
her eyes. 

Seeing this, suddenly Dan knew that he was not 
going to Colorado. Suddenly he heard again the 
General saying that he, Dan, was a Barde, the in¬ 
heritor of a fighting tradition, of men who got what 
they wanted. 

Gat-Da laughed. 

Berne turned to him inquiringly. 

“Be here when I come back, honey? Ain’t no¬ 
body gwine get you while I’m gone?” 

She smiled. “Why did you laugh?” 

“Did you see Martin Pinckney in town?” 

“But that isn’t answering.” 

“Answer me first, please. Did you?” 


WAITING 


343 


“Yes. And O Da, I can’t tell you the wonder¬ 
ful thing he did for us!” 

“He’s a big man, Flame. Did you ever hear 
the story of David and Goliath?” 

“Of course!” 

“That’s why I laughed, Berenicia, my child. 
Never mind. It’s a riddle. What shall I bring 
you from the North?” 

“Rain, please!” 

“I will. Now for the worst of it. I must go to 
Grandpere ." 

A parting under the golden new stars, the glow¬ 
ing gold-tipped incense-sticks, the fireflies rising and 
falling like flakes of golden snow, the sweet evening 
heady with fragrance and Berne’s golden eyes so 
near! 

But, “No!” said Dan to himself. “I’m through 
taking things before I’ve earned them!” and tore 
himself away from her abruptly; rode back to 
Grandpere. 

He went out into the country, did not pause until 
he had come to an old plantation-house, rather 
shabby now, but handsome enough in the starlight. 
He looked long at it, at the two tall magnolias hold¬ 
ing up their white chalices of incense on each side 
of it, as if it were a shrine. Fie looked at the broad 
fields around it. 

“Place Barde! ,y said Dan to himself, and, as he 
watched the lamps being lighted, by strangers, in 
the ancient hall, “Chez nous!” he added. “Home!” 


344 


COME HOME 


He rode thoughtfully back to Cureville and tied 
his horse at the hitching-post before Judge Le 
Boeuf’s pretty garden. 

There was a new manliness, a precision, in the 
dashing Barde tread, that made Judge Julien say to 
his ladies, as he heard it on the walk, “I could swear 
that was Odillon fifty years ago!” 

Odillon’s grandson came to him in his study, his 
“office.” 

Dan looked about this little room before he 
spoke; the walls hung with commissions, testimon¬ 
ials, memorial praises, diplomas and portraits of 
many ancestors, their guns in several wars, their 
swords, their decorations; the shelves lined with 
books selected by them—and every selection, like 
the last made by Judge Julien himself, the best of 
its period. It all meant something to Daniel to¬ 
night, gave a reason for the fine dignity, the probity 
and quiet strength of the handsome head before 
him. 

“Can you give me a long talk?” Daniel asked, 
and after a pause, he added timidly, causing the 
other a flash of pleasure, “Oncle Jubat?” 

After the long talk, a very serious young man 
left Judge Julien Le Boeuf’s house. 

He stood at the brown picket-gate, his hand upon 
it, looked back at madame’s lovely old-fashioned 
garden-beds lying in the moonlight like the photo¬ 
graph of a tapestry, at the comfortable, dignified 


WAITING 


345 

home among its vines and trees; he gazed down the 
white-dust streets, gleaming under the leafy, flecky 
shadows of branches, like cloth-of-silver under a veil 
of black Chantilly lace; he turned his eyes to the 
great-armed oaks that arched it; to the still houses 
glowing gently in trees and shrubbery like Chinese 
lanterns at some giant fete. All so good,—and so 
quiet! A distant bark of a dog, the stamp of a 
sleepy foot in a stall, the chime of a faint old clock. 
Fireflies rising gently. Families gently resting. 

Every night the same. 

Dan thought of Nice and Lake Geneva, of Paris, 
of New York and London in their seasons, of the 
Berkshires, of Coronado Beach; of opera all over 
the world, of skiing in the Alps. 

He looked again up and down the silver street 
of Cureville asleep; breathed deep. The air was 
sweet with jasmine and roses. Above him sud¬ 
denly a mocking-bird sang. 

Gal-Da looked up at him. “All right!” he said. 
“Go tell your little red-headed friend, if you want 
to. Think you’ve caught me; do you? Not any. 
I know what’s the truth of it as well as you do; 
better even than she does! Nests, eh? Watch 
me, camarade! You shall see what you shall see.’’ 
Laughing, he squared his shoulders and went to 
his Grandpere’s. 

The next day Daniel left for the North. 

And Berne waited, rejoicing in every little shower. 


346 


COME HOME 


They dared not pump now, even had the pump 
been good, for the proportion of salt increased in 
the bayou. Berne waited, praying against the long, 
early drought that was threatening the rice-fields 
beside Vermilion waters. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


RICE 

B ERNE’S eaves and trees and bird-houses 
were bright with wings. The purple mar¬ 
tins had peopled their nesting-boxes; the 
bayou thickets were gay with the variegated painted 
buntings; showy red-birds flashed like witchfire 
through the open spaces; yellow-throats were thick 
in the wild tangle of unclipped spirea hedge; and 
the high rose-vines, climbing on old trees, housed 
mocking-birds. She had tempted a pair of Caro¬ 
lina wrens into a tiny chalet built for them under 
the coping of Singsie’s low cottage where their loud, 
jingling song told happiness. Ruby-throated hum¬ 
ming-birds jeweled the trumpet-vine, diving head¬ 
long into its brilliant bugles. 

Elodi, languidly lying in the hammock, took pleas¬ 
ure in the birds; in spite of herself, for Elodi was 
enjoying misery just now. Ah, that delicious self- 
pity of romantic adolescence! 

She had had so much fun in New Orleans, had 
been such a success there, that she had not been 
able to attend her aching heart. Even when she 
saw Landry bestowing upon Helen Jeffrey the half- 

347 


348 


COME HOME 


teasing gallantry she had thought personal to her¬ 
self, Elodi had been too busy with her own triumphs 
to suffer more than an occasional pang. 

But now that she was home again, she indulged 
herself. Her pride badly stung,—and perhaps 
this was salutary,—she thought her heart was 
broken. Accustomed to dramatizing herself as the 
courted heroine of a novel, now she changed her 
role. She was Elaine, Amy Robsart t pining beauti¬ 
fully. 

Her mother was anxious about her. But her 
Tante Amitilde Boutin winked a merry eye; and, 
meeting Odrasse on the street of Cureville, she said 
to him, “You will assist to the ball Saturday night; 
eh, Odrasse? Why no? You don’t care for the 
ball now? Oh, he! I have noticed you have the 
air melancholy; not so? Why all the young peo¬ 
ple should be sad? Our Elodi, she is also de¬ 
pressed. This is strange! I tell you, Odrasse, I 
worry, me, about that Elodi. She is now at Ima- 
ginaire for two-three days. We thought a little 
change— Maybe you pass to Imaginaire?” 

“Why, no, Madame. I—” Odrasse had his 
young misery, too; was not seeing Berne unneces¬ 
sarily since he had renounced his hope of her. 

“Ohl If you can f —for me, you do this, please! 
Sec how is Elodi. Berenicia is away on the planta¬ 
tion for all day today; she will have lonch chez 
Noalie. Elodi is alone—” 

“All right, Mme. Boutin. I’ll be glad to.® 


RICE 


349 


Bien! She is so sad, that poor little girl!” 
She sighed for Odrasse’s benefit; the sigh had a 
smile inside it. 

Odrasse stopped at the general store for candy 
for Elodi; he would try to cheer her up. At least 
he could be useful to others, no matter how he 
suffered. 

He bought a tie and a collar and went into the 
barber shop; Elodi liked to see him looking well. 
He did not want her to feel bad because he was a 
“rube.” It was a blue tie and set off his blue eyes 
finely; he could not help noticing that, despite his 
sorrow. 

Elodi was still in the hammock, sitting up in it 
now, listlessly embroidering an altar-cloth for her 
alma mater } the Convent of Mount Carmel, when 
Vitesse stopped at the gate. 

She was glad to see Odrasse, she said wanly. 
Old friends were soothing. She made room for 
him in the hammock. 

She told him, after awhile, that she understood 
his trouble, her own had given her keen eyes. Soon 
they grew confidential, rather rivals in confidences, 
indeed, as if each preferred to talk than to listen. 

It made Odrasse uncomfortable to hear about her 
undying fealty to the unworthy Landry; and Elodi 
loved Berne, but nevertheless she hurried Odrasse 
over his ravings about her. 

“Old friends are best,” Elodi said. “They are 
who understand. I believe, me, in simple people. 


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They are the best. You help me bear it, Toto.” 

She gave him her hand; he held it, nodded. It 
was a very soft hand and agreeable to hold. He 
forgot to let go of it. 

“You do me, too, Dodi. It’s to be our secret. 
We’ll help each other; nobody else shall know.” 

“Oh ! People would never understand,— jamais! 
They would not believe in our so hopeless—you 
know, for them. And they would never under¬ 
stand how unsentimental our friendship for each 
other.” 

“Never.” He pressed the hand. 

“Sometimes you will want a girl friend; eh, Toto? 
Of course, I am not as pretty as Berne,—” 

“Oh, you— Well, different. That’s all. Dif¬ 
ferent. But I’m not as stylish—” 

“I don’t like stylish—I mean, you are stylish 
enough, Toto. That is lovely, that cravat blue. 
It harmonizes thy eyes, Toto.” 

He blushed. “I got it to please you, Dodi.” 

“Mef* 

“Yes. Let’s please each other, since—” 

They sighed. 

Odrasse had meant to hurry away to be sure of 
escaping Berne, but he forgot to hurry. 

The little Carolina wren put his head out of his 
chalet window and tinkled chattily; he is a good 
neighbor and an expert on nest-building, the Caro¬ 
lina wren. 


RICE 


35i 


Meanwhile, Berne and old Hope, crossing the 
fields, met Mme. Veriot. She wept to Berne piti¬ 
fully,—no make-believe now,—over Borel’s taking 
off, spoke of him as if Berne had never known that 
handsome young reprobate. “He was so good! 
Placed all his wages in my dress; such a good boy! 
When I would say, *Venez, Bor el* he would come, 
w’herever he was. So good and diligent! Oh! 
The Blessed Mother have pity on me!” 

Poor old lady! She was making herself believe 
in his virtues. Berne tried to comfort her; ac¬ 
cepted that tradition. Plope shook his head sor¬ 
rowfully after her, “ ‘Monkey thinks his young’s a 
beauty,’—dat’s what de old folks’ proverb say’.” 

Mme. Veriot turned back. “Much rain will 
come!” she called in a deep tone. 

“Bress de Lawd!” Hope beamed. “She say’ 
rain’s a-comin’. Hallelujah! She a Hoodoo doc¬ 
tor ! She knows ” 

Berne smiled. “She didn’t see her own misfor¬ 
tune coming,” she suggested. 

“How does we-all know she didn’t, Missy? 
Mebbe was somethin’ a-tremblin’ inside her an’ 
tellin’ her all de time. Mebbe she wouldn’t see it. 
Um-um-m! Us cayn’t tell what she felt inside her. 
‘Nobody but de shoe knows dar’s a hole in de 
stockin’!’ Dat’s what de old folks say. Done 
been some teeny-weeny showers. Rice good 
enough,—so fur. Cayn’t holdt out much longer, 


COME HOME 


352 

dough. Pray de Good Lawd dat de devil done gave 
dat witch a true ravalation! So long, Missy! I 
got to keep a-steppin’.” 

Berne sat on the log fence beside which he had 
left her and surveyed the rice-field. Still doing 
fairly well,—only fairly now. 

Thank Heaven there had been water enough to 
drown out the grass when it was young! Thank 
Heaven and Mr. Jonas, that perfect neighbor, who 
had helped drown out the grass in its lusty season 
when grass grows faster than rice! 

But now, if this drought, this breathless drought, 
continued! 

Vermilion was turning greenish, was easily lashed 
into foam, a sign of the deadly salt in the stream. 
Unless rain should come soon, soon, those fields, 
now scarcely covered, would go damp, then dry,— 
then dry! The dead dry stalks that never would 
ripen. 

That big, broad planting; those many potential 
sacks of rice! If they should be lost, with them 
Imaginaire would go. 

Good God, let it rain! Real, long, steady, life- 
giving rain. Let it come in time. Right rain. 

Right rain. Her memory filled with horrible 
pictures. That August day, years ago, after just 
such dry weather, when the quick Southwester had 
come, forcing the Gulf into the bayou, the bayou 
over the dikes,—when a small tidal wave came in 
and killed the standing grain. She remembered 


RICE 


353 


the salt stench as the water receded, the sicken¬ 
ing— 

Stop! she cried aloud to herself. There was 
time still for a bumper crop; good rains now would 
save. 

“lie Imaginaire! Sky and sun over you,— 
bayou beside you,—clouds and soil! lie Imagi¬ 
naire !” Berne thought aloud, indulging a fervent 
fancy. “I believe in you. In your Flame,—the 
Something Within that you symbolize,—that makes 
you. I have done all I can. Save Yourself, 
you Flame, you Something that lives this land! It’s 
up to you.” 

That was Berne’s prayer. She felt strength¬ 
ened by it. 

When she reached the house in the late after¬ 
noon, Singsie called out to her, “Please’m, Missy, 
can you come here and set a speck, befo’ you goes 
to Miss Elodi? I wants to tell you somethin’, 
please’m.” 

Smiling apology at Elodi, who was gathering, 
for the vase bouquets, the little waxy rose-jasmines 
called grand-dukes, Berne went into the kitchen. 

Singsie was giggling, embarrassed. “Miss 
Berne, honey, does you expect you could add on 
another room to ma cabin, with dem old planks 
down behind de stable, if’n I furnishes you a man to 
build it free fo’ nothin’? ’Twouldn’t cost you mo'n 
some nails and a li’l paint, Miss Berne.” 

“Another room? What for, Singsie?” 


354 


COME HOME 


“Fo’ ma Maw. I just couldn’t stay on de place 
without ma Maw. Me and her’s been friends sence 
I was born.” 

“But your mother lives with you, has a room with 
you, now. I don’t understand.” 

“Well’m,—you see, Missy,” giggling again. 
“Tell you de truth,—I been and gone and got mar¬ 
ried.” 

“Married!” 

“Yas’m. Yistiddy. Down Lafayette; ma day 
off. I dunno howcome I come to come to did it. 
But I done did. So us needs a room fo’ Maw.” 

“Surely you may have one. I wish you happi¬ 
ness, Singsie dear. Jury?” 

“Lawsy, no! Dat Jury? No, ma’am. I’s too 
tried and wore out o’ dat Reverend Jury already, 
just listenin’ him preach Sundays, let alone bindin’ 
mase’f to him. I got me a new man,—a bran-new 
man. A Freginny nigger. Light yaller and laughy. 
Um-m! Dunno howcome I come to did it.” 

“Where is he?” 

“On de railroad. Gone to Noo ’leans. Always 
did want a steamboat man or a railroad porter, 
’cause dey got to be away f’um home mo’n half de 
time. Men’s powerful wearyin’ when you gets ’em 
stiddy. Um-m. Ain’t never gwine leave you, 
Missy; you knows dat. Mens is good enough fo’ 
lovin ’,—but when it comes to livin’, gimme a good 
kitchen and a kind missy, and I is placed.” 

“When did you meet him, Singsie?” 


RICE 


355 


“Never seen dat nigger till yistiddy in Lafayette. 
Seen him in de mornin’. Married him in de night. 
Just sort o’ come over me to do it. Dat’s de way 
it do, Miss Berne. 'Thanky, Missy!” and the bride 
went off to bid Hope save that lumber against her 
liege lord’s “time off.” 

It made Berne smile at herself to find that Sing- 
sie’s romance caused her to think of Dan. 

She had missed him sorely, in spite of the work 
and worry. Everybody missed him; wherever she 
went people stopped her to ask if she knew when 
Dan Barde was coming back, to hope it would be 
soon. 

She was beginning to see Dan in a new light, 
through their eyes. “He give’ himself so to every 
one, to everything that comes,” said Noalie. 
“Never of my life have I seen a young man so ear¬ 
nest.” 

“Earnest, Noalie?” 

“Oh, but yes! Whatever he does, to whomever 
he speaks, with whatever he amuse himself, he is 
so in it, you understand. He is there with you, all 
of him, until it is done. Like a little child.” 

That was true. Like a child, sincere and ab¬ 
sorbed. He played so thoroughly, became wrapped 
in his game, meant it so, because he was earnest; 
not because he was superficial. He would work 
the same way; she was beginning to feel sure. 

If he had—cared for her really, he would have 
done that in the same way, too; without surrender 



356 


COME HOME 


to circumstance. Well, let be! Berne set her lips 
and that chin,—the flesh upon it now a little thinner 
than in the spring, its firm line more salient. 

Dan was in the parish, had returned the day pre¬ 
vious, back to his job. Berne, for all her resolu¬ 
tion, was woman enough to have felt a pang at first 
because he had merely telephoned, had not come 
straight to her. But she blamed herself for it; 
he had said that Mr. Ned needed him. Berne un¬ 
derstood the imperiousness of work; was proud of 
this newly revealed Daniel who obeyed his job. 

Thinking of this and of Singsie’s short and ex¬ 
peditious romance, she joined her guest among the 
grand-dukes. 

Elodi was her smiling rose-and-ivory, pansy-eyed 
self again; she declared herself, oh, so much bet¬ 
ter! She had changed her plan, she said. She was 
going to the ball after all. Toto had asked her. 
But all her frocks were so mussed from the New 
Orleans visit, she must make repairs. Might she 
not go home that night when Mr. La Grande drove 
into Cureville for his chess game? 

Berne was glad that her father would have Elodi’s 
chatter to enliven the drive. He was worrying. 
She dreaded the haunted look with which he ques¬ 
tioned her, “The rice?” every time she came in 
from the fields. She knew how fear was clutching 
at him, how he loved this ancestral home, how his 
pride would agonize to lose it. Poor Commodore! 

She stood at the gate where she had waved good- 


RICE 


357 


by to her father and Elodi, stood long after they 
had turned the bend. 

Peter came to be kissed before running off to bed. 

“Sis,” he said. “Will you hear me my French 
verbs tomorrow? We had to promise to study 
them some in vacation. Gee! I hate parts of 
speech! I like languages all fixed together,—how 
to say things; but not to read words all kind of 
assorted, say ’em over and over one by one.” He 
laughed. “But I know more French than most of 
the chaps; ’count of living here, of course.” 

“What do you like to read best, Pete? Hon¬ 
est !’ 

“Pirates and Luther Burbank. Gee! He’s a 
wiz! Mr. Ned gave me a book about him.” 

Luther Burbank! Oh, she knew it; she knew 
Mater was wrong; this was deeper than a boyish 
fancy. Peter was a born planter—and must have 
his plantation. 

The rice must come, the rich heads of full ob¬ 
long grains! She called to them to fulfil them¬ 
selves. 

Then she went indoors, curled up on the cush¬ 
ions in her favorite window-seat to read. And, 
like other tired farmers over a book at night, soon 
drowsed; her head fell back on the cushions. She 
was fast asleep. 

She did not know how long she slept, but it must 
have been a long time. 

A change in the air of the room aroused her. 


358 


COME HOME 


A little flurry of leaves blew in through the open 
door. 

There was no sound of evening birds. 

But there was a sound! The perfect melody. 
The symphony of joy. Thank God! Oh, thank 
God! The steady, heavy, tropical downpour of 
blessedness, the long, sincere, hearty music of an 
enduring rain! 

Salvation had come while she slept. 

Berne ran out into the wall of rain, held up her 
arms to it, her face already wet with grateful tears. 

“Why, Flame!” 

It was Dan at the gate, in dripping oilskins. 

“Go inside this instant!” he commanded. “It's 
pouring.” 

“It’s pouring!” Berne echoed ecstatically. 
“Thank God!” 

She went back under the protection of the “gal¬ 
lery.” 

“I’ll take the horse around to the stable,” Dan 
said. “Then,—O Flame! I’ve such news!” 

She went indoors to wait for him. 

Her heart was singing with the rain. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


TREASURE TROVE 

3 AN left his oilskins outdoors, came into the 
living-room to her; his eyes were shining. 
He did not take her hand, just said, 
“Here’s me, sweety.” 

“Let’s sit out there on the bench, Da. I want 
to be near that rain! Oh, isn’t it glorious? 

“Put that scarf over your shoulders, then. And 
hurry. You’re wasting time. And I’ve got some¬ 
thing to talk about.” 

As he helped her wind Mater’s fleecy-sheer 
white shawl about her, his hands trembled. 

They sat on the old settee-bench, on the brick 
floor behind the wistarias; the warm light from 
within the room illumined Berne’s hair and the hap¬ 
piness in her eyes. 

“I said so!” Dan commented aloud, regarding 
her. “I said all the time, ‘No use trying to com¬ 
pare them with her; they haven’t anything. When 
you think about Flame, those poor women just 
naturally cease to exist.’ ” 

“Is that the great news that couldn’t wait?” 
“No; that’s no news at all. But I have great 

359 



36° 


COME HOME 


news. Flame,” seriously with increasing eagerness 
as he spoke. “You know that Hoodoo Pool o’ 
the Moon? Know why it is Hoodoo? Why noth¬ 
ing lives in it? Child, it’s salt. A salt spring. I 
found it out that night, when I washed my hands 
after Borel— Well, there was something queer 
to me about the soil in that trench where they were 
digging. You see, I’d been reading up about salt, 
studying the country, talking to Mr. Ned. He’d 
told me how they found the big deposit at Petite 
Anse,—about the difference in the formation where 
there was plenty r and all that,—and that place 
looked interesting to me. 

“I got Caleb to stay with me when you had all 
gone away, and dig. And the deeper we went the 

better it looked. 

♦ 

“I told Mr. Ned and he looked and brought ex¬ 
perts. Flame, dear,—I don’t want to raise hopes 
too high; nobody can know positively about any¬ 
thing down in the earth, under the ground, until 
he goes in deep and looks around,—but it seems 
to the State experts and to a man I brought back 
with me who knows as much about salt as is 
known,—it seems to them that in those high mounds 
back of the magnolias,—there is, on lie Imaginaire 
property, a salt supply,—O Berenicia, mia !—like 
the one at Petite Anse. And that’s inexhaustible 
and ninety-nine per cent pure,—the best rock salt 
on earth! 

“No! Don’t talk yet. Listen. Shine on me 


TREASURE TROVE 


361 

that way, but just listen! Mr. Ned’s going \o meet 
your father and Mr. Guidry in Cureville. Reckon 
there won’t be any chess-game this night! Going 
to make a proposition to them about operating this 
mine,—if it turns out as we think,—operate with 
his own, take Mr. La Grande and Mr. Guidry into 
his company. If your father will. And I bet he 
will!” 

“Oh! Da!” 

“It’s at least a reasonable hope, Flame.” 

Ah, that was what dear Commodore needed, she 
thought,—a reasonable hope ! 

“Father felt that Pool o’ the Moon held treas¬ 
ure. And you found it for us, Gai-Da!” 

“You’re not half as glad about that as I am, old 
girl. It was blessed luck.” 

“Luck? Ability, Da.” 

“Not so much of that. But, honestly, it does 
come, that sort of thing,” he looked at her a little 
self-consciously. “From a fellow’s keeping his 
mind on his job. If it pans out, honey, they’re go¬ 
ing to put old Dan in charge; under Mr. Ned's 
eye, of course. Going to let me make a mine! 
Hallelujah!” 

“You will stay here, then? It is better to stay, 
you think? Than to go to Colorado?” Her 
steady voice gave no hint of how she wanted her 
“wings” to stay. 

“Yes. I want to. Of course, there was a doubt, 
a question. At first, until we know, I can’t expect 


362 


COME HOME 


this new company to pay as well as they would 
out there. And I’m needing money. But I’ll stay; 
you bet I will!” 

To pay as well? Dan needing money? Berne 
was astonished at that as a consideration; Daniel 
had money enough as it was, even without work. 
Of course, she would not pursue the question in 
her mind, though he gave her a side-glance, wait¬ 
ing, hoping she would pursue it. 

“Your mother was willing, Da?” 

Daniel laughed indulgently. “That worked out 
finely. The little rascal! You remember my tell¬ 
ing you about the young Englishman I used to hate 
so in my childhood, because I was afraid he’d marry 
my mother? And how she often reminded me of 
it, later? She says now that she couldn’t very well 
have married him then; or maybe my jealousy 
saved her from a hasty step.” He chuckled. “He 
was only a poor cadet with debts piled up to the 
zenith and had to go live off in Canada in some vast 
wilderness, which would have annihilated Mother. 

“But now! He’s inherited a title and wealth un¬ 
told and everything glossy. He’s a widower; and 
he remembered Mother,—any man w T ould; she cer¬ 
tainly is a little winner; wait until you see her!— 
and he would a-wooing go. Turned up this sum¬ 
mer. Mother was afraid I’d still be jealous. She 
was glad,—the little scamp!—when I said I was 
‘fixin’ to quit her. 

“I never suspected a thing. Men are blind, I 


TREASURE TROVE 


363 


suppose. For Mme. Boutin said she thought there 
was something, as soon as she heard Mother’s letter 
to Grandpere. 

“She wrote to Grandpere , opening communica¬ 
tions, wanted to arrange—some—some business 
with him. She always has a reason behind her 
baby eyes. I’m going to miss her.” 

Berne liked Dan’s tenderness for his mother, was 
beginning to see that charmingly designing little 
lady in the light of his affection. 

“So you’ll have to put up with me hanging 
around, Miss La Grande. Flame!” 

“Yes, Da?” 

“Why don’t you ask me what you wanted to know 
a minute ago,—why I need money now? Why I’m 
’most broke? I’m pining to reveal it.” 

“Do, then,—please.” 

He took both her hands, rose, drew her upright, 
too, held her hands upon his breast. His voice 
trembled under the pride in it. 

“Flame, dear, I’ve pledged my income,—and all 
that belonged to her in Grandpere's trusteeship, 
which my mother has now turned over to me, 
I’ve spent that too. And I’ve borrowed from her 
and from Grandpere. And I ain’t got nothing left 
but me” 

“Why, Daniel!” 

“Oh! Berne,—Flame,—Darling! I’ve gone 
and bought me a nest. The Place Barde! Now, 
don’t yon cry.” There were tears in his own eyes, 



364 


COME HOME 


too. “Grandpere is swimming in tears about it. 
And even Judge Julien, when I told him I meant 
to have a try for it. when I’d learned it was for 
sale. The old place said to me, ‘Come home, Dan!’ 
I had to have it. The people who lease it have un¬ 
til next spring to stay. By that time, maybe, the 
mine will he. And you shall teach me, and Odrasse, 
and all of you; especially Mr. Jonas; all about 
plantations. I’ll be learning all about plantations; 
don’t laugh! Oh! It’s a great game, dear!” 

“Daniel,—forgive me—my not recognizing, 1 — 
not knowing,—” Berne began contritely. 

“Ssh! ’Twas you set up this glorious being. 
Silly child! I deserved everything you said. It 
was right.” He looked at her timidly. “Just now 
you said— recognized. Honey,—is it the little boy 
that was —you think you see, again?” 

“I’ve been seeing him for a long time, Gai-Da. )} 

“Flame ! Flame of my heart, have you the heart 
to see me building a nest right under your eyes and 
not say, ‘I’ll come live in it, Da’? Flame, won’t 
you try to love me, the man I am?” 

“My wings!” 

She slipped into his arms. 

“My Flame! Oh, I'm kindled now, dear girl, 
forever!” 

Berne looked up, the quiet barriers she had built 
up about her ardent heart all down, lifted her eyes 
to his. 

Seeing what he saw in them, Dan bent his head. 


TREASURE TROVE 365 

He buried his lips in her hair still wet with the 
blessed rain. 

U I want to be worth it! Oh, I want to be worth 
it!” Daniel said. He pressed the bright head 
against his heart. 

“Flame dear, light o’ me, I wish I could lift 
every care at a sweep. Rut there’s work ahead, 
a hundred chances of disappointment, in mine, in 
crop. After one year’s crop, you know,—another 
—another—to be saved. But each year is to be—” 

“A twig for the nest,” Berne said. 

“No! Not years, honey! Can’t wait years to get 
the nest built. Listen dear. If we can swing 
things,—if hard work and steady hope will do it, 
when those interlopers leave our house in the 
spring,—when the birds make their nests! Dear, 
my mother knew my trouble, knew what I needed, 
why I found myself here. She said it was because 
I had never had a home, and now I’d found the 
old one that my father had never ceased to yearn 
over. I needed a home. I came home, to myself, 
—to you. O dearest, won’t you come home with 
me? Please, ma’am, marry me, red-top, in the 
spring r 

She let him have her lips. 

After a blessed moment, “I’ve found the treasure 
now!” Dan said. 

“You won’t weary of the nest-building, the work, 
the grind, Da?” 

“But we’ll have flights, too, dear. We’ll plan 


366 


COME HOME 


for flights. When we’re able. I’m going to fly 
with you singing,—show you the whole world. 
You need to fly away sometimes—for the joy of 
coming home. That’s what makes wings so splen¬ 
did; they’re things to fly home with. And that’s 
what I’ve enjoyed it all so for, the travel and the 
play,—I know now,—to be able to show it all to 
you, some day.” 

“A long day, dear. In the meantime, Gai-Da, 
I know the grind, the weariness, the work—” 

“Oh, no! It’s not to be all that. Never, never 
again. It’s to be just a thing to win, dear love. 
The greatest game in the world!” 

She understood him now. She knew he would 
play it to win because it was a game to him, and 
Gai-Da played his games. 

He said, “It’s all wonderful, sweetheart. As if, 
when you get that light going, it sort o’ lights the 
world.” 

A long silence. 

The wind and the rain swept steadily on. 

“What is that sound, to you, Da?” 

“What sound, sweetness? Oh! Sounds like 
wind and rain to me.” 

“But wTat else?” 

“ ‘It is not raining rain to me; it’s raining dollar- 
bills,’ ” he misquoted. “That what you mean?” 

She laughed. Then, “It sounds to me like great 
wings sweeping over the world, blessing all the 
nests here now, and nests to come. Bird’s homes 


TREASURE TROVE 367 

and men’s. All these homes,—Motherlie’s and 
Noalie’s and—” 

“Ours, Flame o’ my heart,” he said. “And, 
please God, ours, my dear!” 


THE END 


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